


We All Fall Down

by CaptainSerious93



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Army, Domestic Violence, F/M, Ledger Joker - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Joker, Slow Burn, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSerious93/pseuds/CaptainSerious93
Summary: After eight years in the U.S. Army, Sergeant Jack Napier has seen his share of combat. With the Middle East now on the precipice of war, and another lengthy deployment looming, Jack struggles to keep not only his family but also his sanity.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. Part I

It was 4 a.m.

One hour left. 

Sixty grueling minutes until his twenty-four-hour shift on staff duty ended, and he could finally go home. He was crawling out of his skin, eager to wash away a day’s worth of sweat and grime before falling face-first into bed. Heavy exhaustion seeped into the marrow of his bones sometime around eleven when the barracks turned quiet, the phones stopped ringing, and the steady flow of traffic in and out of the door stopped.

It really didn’t matter to him that the sweet, sweet comp day was within his grasp. When most of the lower enlisted and non-commissioned officers—like himself—used their treasured day off to catch up on sleep, Jack well enough knew he’d spend his day doing anything but. He couldn’t wait to rest his sore muscles, though sleep was a nagging itch he couldn’t scratch. A concept he’d left behind somewhere on the border of Bosnia and Croatia.

His feet propped up on the desk, Jack reached for the cigarette tucked behind his right ear. Clamping the butt between his teeth, he lit it with the engraved Zippo Aubrey gave him for his birthday right before he shipped out for basic training. He took a long drag, holding the chest full of smoke for a moment, his attention fixated on the small television in the barrack’s lobby. For the better part of the night, he’s been watching the breaking news. Everyone on base has.

Knotted balls of nerves in the pit of their bellies warning them of danger ahead.

But Jack, he squashed it. If he let that fear fester in the back of his mind like everyone else, all it would do is create imaginary problems, and in a world full of real ones, who in the hell had time to think about something that may or may not even happen? It was out of their control, anyway. It’s not like they had the final say in whether they were deployed.

A lesson Jack learned the hard way.

“Jesus. It’s starting to look like a war zone out there.” A thick Boston accent echoed in the spacious lobby.

Jack didn’t look away from the television, flicking ash from his cigarette into the empty can of Coke pinched between his thighs. “That’s because it _is_ a war zone, kid. They’ve been going at it for months, but the rebels are just now taking control of Fallujah.”

“Fallujah… did you see any action there during Desert Storm, Sergeant Napier?”

Tearing his eyes away from the television, Jack stared down Ryan Sullivan. He was an eighteen-year-old Private, a rifleman in the fire team Jack commanded. Ryan pushed his Army issued eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose, resting his chin on the rounded end of the mop handle.

Giving away details of his _past_ life wasn’t something Jack was fond of. Afraid if he threw them a bone, they’d come swarming for the carcass. What was the harm, he wondered, in divulging this sliver of truth? It was an innocent question, and Ryan was an airhead. The information would more than likely turn to steam in the hot air occupying his empty, thick skull before he had the chance to tell anyone else.

Besides, he _had_ to be friendly. Now that so many pairs of scrutinizing eyes were watching his every move after he was arrested last year at a bar outside of Fort Carson in Colorado, and ordered to talk to a psychiatrist. Which he only agreed to because his options were either see the shrink, or face court-martial. 

It was a bar fight over the Avalanche and Blackhawks hockey game. A game he lost two-hundred-dollars on because Chicago blew a three-to-one lead in the last five minutes of the third period.

It’s not like he’d stumbled home blind drunk and beat the piss out of his wife.

But apparently a spike in alcohol consumption and random bouts of uncontrolled aggression were signs of…

Trauma avoidance.

Or at least that’s what he was told.

The mere thought of being moved to Headquarters to push papers was more frightening than being under heavy artillery fire. Jack refused to give them a single goddamn reason to make that move. He’d eat a bullet from his pistol before he ended up behind a desk. So, if that meant he had to stop telling the Privates to _fuck off_ every time they tried asking about his service, then so be it.

“Desert Storm? How old do you think I am?” chuckled Jack. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke from his nostrils. “I was in Bosnia-Herzegovina… it was a wild time.”

“How many tours?”

The cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Jack tossed up three fingers.

Mark Winters, a Specialist who Jack trained when he first arrived at Fort Riley, turned around in the swivel chair. “Do you have any stories from basic, Sergeant?”

Jack wanted to scream. This was the worst part of staff duty for him. When the lower enlisted soldiers thought they could strike up a conversation. _Get to know_ him. The same old song and dance was nauseating. Why was it so difficult for them to understand he didn’t want to become their friend? Being promoted to Sergeant meant his only responsibility is to make sure the four men in his fire team weren’t total pieces of shit.

After smoking the cigarette down to the filter, Jack dropped it into the can. Swinging his legs off the desk, he tossed the can into the garbage.

Running a hand through his sandy-blond hair, he was only doing this because he didn’t want to become a paper pusher. Jack hated telling this story because he hated admitting he was once young and dumb like the rest of them.

“A week before I graduated from basic, a drill instructor caught me going the wrong way in the chow line so I had to walk around the mess hall yelling _beep, beep—wrong way!”_ When Jack got full-belly laughs out of Ryan and Mark, a small smile tugged on the corners of his lips. His belly filled with this warm and fuzzy feeling. While he wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, he kind of liked it. Maybe if he told them another story about his imbecilic youth, the warmth would turn white hot. “When I was living in the barracks at my first duty station, I stupidly forgot to sweep the floor before room inspection, and as punishment, I had to sweep the sunshine off the sidewalk… it took me all day.”

Nope.

Despite the fresh round of laughs, that warm fuzzy feeling dissipated just as fast as it came on.

As Jack rubbed his sore eyes with the heels of his hands, a thick silence blanketed the lobby. When he blinked away the blurry stars and his vision refocused, he found Ryan and Mark with their eyes glued to the television. Shaking his head, he started clearing some clutter off of the desk.

“Get back to work, Private Sullivan,” Jack asserted. “And Specialist Winters, why don’t you focus your attention on making the latrine so sparkling clean the Virgin Mary would be proud to shit in there.” 

Not hearing the _squeak_ of their rubber-soled boots, he plodded his gaze up. They were still watching the news. Their mouths were slightly agape, their brows furrowed. Jack recognized the unmitigated fear on their faces. The same panic had consumed him when the helicopter that dropped him behind enemy lines left the ground in Hungary.

“Don’t be getting your panties in a knot over something that will not happen.” 

“Y—you really think so, Sergeant?” asked Ryan.

If he were being honest, the roaring engine of a Black Hawk helicopter was already pounding in his ears. Not that he minded. Even he sensed his trigger finger was getting twitchy these days, and despite all the training they were doing on base, Jack grew… bored.

In his mind, Fallujah wasn’t falling fast enough. He was giddy; imagining being in the back of a Humvee driving through the desert. Dry, hot wind in his face, eighty-pounds of gear strapped to his body, the M16 rifle in his hands. That gnawing wonderment of whether they’ll be blown to hell by an RPG or land mine eating his nerves raw.

God, he loved war.

Then again, Jack couldn’t stomach the thought of having to leave Aubrey on her own for at least twelve months. She was more than capable of taking care of herself; that wasn’t his concern. She’d done it for two years while they were living at Camp Bondsteel in Kosovo. Jack understood the stress of long deployments took their toll on her well before they ever caught up to him.

And as for Ryan Sullivan and Mark Winters, Jack knew those numbskulls will be just fine. At least Ryan would. Ryan is the teenager a senior soldier wanted at their side. He’s as dumb as a box of rocks on the street, but a goddamn genius on the battlefield. Mark… well, Mark was just an idiot. Jack predicted he would have an AK-47 round shot into one of his ass-cheeks by the Iraqi rebels or get hit by friendly fire in the first week.

His gut told him friendly fire seemed the most probable.

Jumping to his feet, Jack took long strides over to Ryan, and tugged the mop handle out of his kung-fu grip.

“I really think so. If they end up sending us to go play in the sandbox, I’ll do what I can to keep you here. I sure as shit don’t want your dumb-ass beside me in combat.” Jack’s words were so honeyed, he almost believed himself for a minute. “I’ll finish the floors, Private, and you head back to your dorm to get some sleep. The squad is marching in full-gear Friday at seven-hundred hours, and I don’t need you embarrassing me in front of Staff Sergeant Nichols because you’re _tired_.”

“Yes, Sergeant Napier. Thank you, Sir.” Ryan almost tripped over his own feet as he rounded the desk to collect his fatigue jacket, hanging on a swivel chair.

Shoving the mop head into the bucket of water smelling violently of bleach-y disinfectant, Jack watched Ryan and Mark walk out of the lobby off to do their respective tasks. When they were out of sight, he turned off the television to relish in the first ounce of quiet he’s had all day.

Jack looked at the face of his watch, which he wore on the inside of his wrist.

4:15.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, cracking his neck.

Forty-five minutes to go.

* * *

Jack pulled into a parking space in front of the apartment building him and Aubrey were staying in while they waited for base housing to open.

Well, that’s what he told her. There were plenty of houses open on base. He just didn’t want to live there. To protect _her_. He saw how the Army wives pulled Aubrey into their petty drama during their seven-month stint at Mannheim in Germany, and seeing how catty they made her left Jack _mildly_ peeved. He avoided living on base since, wanting to keep Aubrey at a safe distance so those toxic women didn’t have the chance to poison her.

Once he killed the engine, he popped open the glove compartment for his wedding band. Slipping the cool band of white gold onto his finger, all seemed well again. Jack breathed easier, his heartbeat slowed, and the weights crushing his shoulders weren’t as heavy. The chill, damp Kansas morning smelled crisper—like fresh cut grass and earthy dew.

She’s the force keeping him grounded. Without her, he’s lost. A mess of epic proportions. Every morning when he pulls the band off of his long, slender finger, and tucked it safely inside the glove compartment, it takes a painful bite out of his soul. When he was being stretched thin at work and he brushed his thumb along the inside of his finger only to find sweat-slicked flesh, it made him more alone than ever.

Jack wished there was a way he could carry a piece of her with him at all times. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so stressed. So _anxious._ When she’s around, he’s content. Not a worry for miles. He knew he could wear his ring to work. But as an infantryman, it was constantly in the back of his mind that it would get caught on a piece of equipment—then it would be goodbye to his finger forever. When Aubrey found out he didn’t wear it at work and she pulled the truth out of him as if she were extracting one of his teeth, she offered to buy Jack one of those silicone bands instead. He rejected her offer. He’d only wear the one she gave him on the day they married. Anything else would be superficial. Imposturous.

From the backseat, he collected his fatigue jacket and backpack. Climbing out of the car, he locked up. Behind him, Jack heard the heavy front entrance of the building snap shut. He shuddered, his insides igniting in to a raging inferno after being prodded with a hot iron.

If there was anything he hated more than having to make conversation with the other soldiers overnight, it was coming face-to-face with civilians while in uniform. Their sickly sweet and bogus smiles of admiration made Jack want to puke. He never knew what to say, how to act, when they thanked him for _his service_. So he’d just purse his lips, bob his head, and lowly drawl an awkward, “you’re welcome?”

It was better to keep it impersonal like that instead of saying what he wanted to.

Jack vividly remembered a time after he and Aubrey moved to Colorado after Kosovo, and she dragged him out to go drinking. Some drunken pacifist, hippy chick from the nearby university noticed his _This We’ll Defend_ beanie and asked,

_“Do you ever feel guilty about killing people?”_

_Jack kept his eyes forward, polishing off the last mouthful of his whiskey._

_“Nope,” he said. Turning his head to look at the girl, Jack reached out and poked his finger into her soft neck, just above where the collarbones meet the sternum. “Right there… that’s my favorite spot to hit. You get to see a spurt of blood when they take their last breath.”_

That was the last time Aubrey took him to a bar.

Not that he blamed her.

With one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder, Jack crossed the parking lot. He prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that no one else in the building got an early start to their day. That way he wouldn’t have to muster a fake smile he didn’t have the energy for.

Thankfully, he was in the clear. Free to climb the four flights of stairs to his apartment with no other human interaction. He couldn’t get the deadbolt unlocked fast enough.

Softly closing the door behind him, Jack locked it. He took a deep breath, hit with the sharp piney-floral aroma of lavender. Aubrey read in a magazine about how the scent of lavender helped promote relaxation and tranquility. Now she was always burning lavender candles, which he didn’t mind because they really smelled good. Though, he wasn’t a fan of the spray she used on his pillow to help him sleep. It was too strong. Concentrated. Jack didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t like it. She just wanted to help. So he waited until she left the bedroom to wash her face and brush her teeth before swapping their pillows. When she made pouches of lavender pot-pourri and started slipping them into his dresser drawers so his uniforms and civilian clothes reeked of it, that’s where Jack drew the line.

On the back of a barstool at the breakfast bar, he hung his jacket. Then he moseyed over to the couch, plopping down. He tossed his backpack onto the floor in front of the television and shucked off his sand-colored boots before throwing them in the same general direction as the bag. Getting up, he stretched, yawned, and scratched the back of his neck, finally deciding on a shower.

The apartment’s only bathroom wasn’t en-suite to the bedroom so he wouldn’t worry about waking up Aubrey. Jack left the door open a crack as he turned on the shower, stripping from the grimy trousers and t-shirt. He put them in the white canvas hamper, and then stepped into the tub under the lukewarm water. As the waterfall pelted down on him, Jack fiddled with the knob. A vain effort to find the perfect temperature. Water that was too cold always reminded him of those awful field showers, while if it got too hot, he just felt like he was burning in Hell.

Beyond the point of irritated, Jack gave up. He spun the knob all the way to the right, opting for freezing cold. At least this way there wouldn’t be any reason for him to linger in there.

He was in and out in three minutes.

Wrapping the fluffy towel around his narrow hips, Jack brushed his teeth. Spitting a glob of white minty foam down the drain, he rinsed his mouth then opened the medicine cabinet to put away the toothpaste. Once it was back in its proper resting space, Jack went to close it but froze. His eye caught the bright pink Post-it note Aubrey taped on the inside of the door.

A reminder for him.

**_Abilify — 1 pill 1x a day_ **

**_Zoloft — 1 pill 2x a day_ **

**_Ativan — 1 pill 2-3x a day_ **

**_Ambien — 1 pill under the tongue before bed. DO NOT even THINK about DRINKING with this one. I’m serious, J!_ **

Staring at the translucent orange bottles on the middle shelf next to the Lexapro and Xanax Aubrey tried numbing herself with, Jack drummed his fingers on the edge of the porcelain sink. She counted his pills. In the morning after he left for work, and at night once he’d gone to bed. Not because she worried about him abusing them, but because she knew him better than anyone.

He wasn’t taking them at all.

Jack knew he was fine.

A little on edge, sure, which he fucking hated with a burning passion. It was like he had no control over his emotions or reactions anymore. Someone else was in command now. Sudden loud noises made him jump out of his skin. Mortar fireworks and firecrackers had him frantically clawing for his next breath, while his chest was tight and it hurt, like an elephant crushing him. Even hail storms sent him ducking for cover. The sound of the ice crystals hitting windows was like the pelting debris falling around him after an artillery ambush.

The first time it happened was the first Fourth of July back in the States. Jack didn’t remember any of it. Shame like he’s never known swallowed him whole when Aubrey said she found him in a corner of their pitch black bedroom, hands squeezing over his ears, screaming, _“Serg, they’re moving Northeast! Have the mortar team push them back about one-hundred meters... We need those goddamn mortars up here; I’m running out of ammo! You want a-fucking-nother one, mother fucker!?… Covering fire!”_

After that is when Jack started finding the books Aubrey stashed around the house. They were on post-traumatic stress disorder, and how to help a loved one suffering from it. Jack threw them all in the garbage. She never asked him what happened to them.

When the flashbacks, hallucinations, and panic attacks started happening more frequently—thankfully never on base—they both stopped talking about it. 

Jack recognized Aubrey’s tremendous efforts to take care of things around the house so he didn’t have to worry, and how she tried to make the aura more positive than negative. No way would he ever come right out and thank her for it, because if he did that would mean admitting things with him weren’t fine. The least he could do to show his appreciation was attempt to make her think he was helping himself. 

Grabbing the bottle of antidepressants, Jack shook one of the white tablets into the palm of his hand. Next the Ativan, then the antipsychotic pill.

He always refused to take the antipsychotic. Only people who are crazy needed those. Aubrey told him it would stop their living room from turning into Bosnia. If their living room was turning into Bosnia, then _she’s_ the one who needed the antipsychotic, because that was definitely _not_ happening to him.

Jack tossed the pills into the toilet and flushed. Just like he did every day since he caught Aubrey grinding up the tablets to slip into his coffee.

Closing the medicine cabinet, it took every morsel of self-control he had not to grab her pill bottles and flush those too. She didn’t need that shit, like he didn’t. Relying on those crutches to get through the day like some vapid, doltish fucking housewife wasn’t the strong, brilliant woman he remembered. This wasn’t the Aubrey he met twelve years ago, and Jack was determined to get her back.

Without a second thought, he headed out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom. It was illuminated with the early morning sun cutting through the slats of the blinds. Jack stood in the doorway. He held the towel around his waist, resting his shoulder on the jamb. A small smile ghosted his lips at the sight of the sleeping form tangled in the pale yellow sheets. Over a decade later, she was still the most beautiful girl in the world to him.

Aubrey’s snoring had always been something he found comical. Jack wondered how such a heavy snort could come from such a little thing like her.

Lying on her stomach with her arms tucked under the pillow, he gawked at the ivory flesh of her ample ass peeking out from the bottom of her panties. A loose t-shirt hung unshapely on her top half, but he knew damn well deliciously thick Pilates toned curves were hidden underneath. And those knee-high tube socks she always wore to bed…

It was sinful, really, that Jack only thought about the unholy, unspeakable acts he wanted to wake her up with. As badly as he wanted to crawl into bed and delicately move the groggy Aubrey onto her knees and sink balls-deep into her slick, velvet warmth, Jack was so physically tired the possibility of finding the stamina to fuck her like she deserves was slim.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to get lucky in another way.

Maybe having her suck the life out of him would help him sleep.

Dropping the towel, Jack let it pool around his feet. He stepped over it, falling into bed on his back. She stirred, taking a sharp breath as her eyes fluttered open for a second, giving Jack a quick peek at her winter blue eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, scooting over. Aubrey draped an arm along his abdomen, snuggling close as if she were trying to burrow into him.

“Early.” Jack curled an arm around her, and then twisted his long leg with hers. He moved the clock on his nightstand to look at the red neon numbers. “It’s a quarter to six.”

Aubrey yawned; pressed a kiss to his chest.

“You’re freezing.” Reaching behind her, Aubrey grabbed the quilt and wrapped it around the both of them. She cuddled up closer to him, making Jack relax even more. He never took for granted a single second he had her in his arms. “How was duty? I hope they didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Boring; no trouble at all. The guys really liked the cabbage rolls and piroshki you dropped off for dinner. When I went back to get more, they already demolished all four trays.”

“Oh, thank God. I was afraid they wouldn’t.” More awake now, Aubrey propped her chin on Jack’s right peck. He stroked his fingers through her lush inky-black tresses, earning a soft sigh which escaped her plump lips. When she fully opened her eyes to him, Jack noticed that the same worry knotting the pit of his stomach was dulling her usually glittering irises. She’d been up watching the news, too. “Did you—” she licked her lips— “hear anything about what’s going on _over there_?”

Jack shook his head. They both knew the 1st Infantry Division would be in the first deployment wave to the Middle East.

He ran a light finger along the underside of her chin. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I told some guys tonight—don’t get your panties in a knot over something that’s not happening.”

“I don’t care if it happens… just as long as it’s eight months from now. When you’re out, and we’ve bought that piece of land somewhere in Wyoming so we can start having all those babies.” Aubrey laughed, but then Jack didn’t, so her eyes widened to almost twice their size. “This better not be giving you any ideas about re-enlisting _again_. You promised me, J.”

“It isn’t!” he defended. “They’re trying hard to get me to, but you have my word. I told you eight years, and then I’m done.”

He watched the soft features on her face relax.

Jack desperately wanted to feel something—contrite, guilty—about the fact his new contract was already being drawn up. This time for six years. Once he saw what they were offering for a re-enlistment bonus, it was hook, line, and sinker. He’d be dumb to turn down thirty-thousand-dollars. Plus, he was so close to being promoted to Staff Sergeant, he could taste it. And it was far sweeter than he ever imagined.

Sliding his fingers through Aubrey’s hair, Jack curled them. He tugged, giving her just enough to leave her wanting more. 

“You believe me, _don’t_ you?” he mused.

This time, Aubrey wasn’t so good at hiding. The precarious way she furrowed her round, sculpted eyebrows gave it away.

She didn’t answer him, rather changed the subject.

“Did you take your meds?”

“I did.”

Aubrey smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

He tightened his arms around her, squeezing. The squeal of girlish laughter echoing off the walls was nothing short of music to his ears. Jack rolled Aubrey onto her back, climbing over her. She swatted at his dangling dog-tags like a playful kitten. Sneaking his hand up her shirt, there was an explosion of goosebumps under the calloused pads of his fingers.

Jack brought his mouth a hair’s breadth away from hers. “You know I’d do anything to keep you happy, dollface.”


	2. Chapter 2

Holding her breath, Aubrey eased her arm out from under Jack.

He was asleep. It took almost two hours for him to get there, and she well enough knew it wouldn’t last long. When Jack slept, it was far from peaceful. If he wrangled three hours in one sitting, Aubrey considered that a good night. The nightmares had him stirring three, sometimes four times.

When Jack startled her awake, she’d bolt from bed and grab an Ativan before coaxing him from whatever it was tormenting his mind. Once he realized what was happening, Jack did what he did best. He’d push her away and refuse to take the pill to calm down, pretend nothing out of the ordinary took place. It was a vicious cycle; a living nightmare. She was helpless. Hopeless. Exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically just like him.

Aubrey hated herself for feeling this way, but sometimes taking care of Jack seemed worse than having a child. It was reaching the point where he refused to even close his eyes unless she was lying beside him. If Jack woke up and she wasn’t there, then all hell was bound to break loose. Too many times to count he’s come flying out of the bedroom drenched in a cold sweat, crying and shouting about how she doesn’t care about him and is never there when he needs her.

When that happened, all Aubrey did was bite her tongue. Never once did she say anything back. Her therapist said that’s the best thing to do; not antagonize him when his emotions were running at maximum velocity, and he was becoming violent.

She didn’t tell her therapist about the occasional violent outburst because those were nothing she couldn’t handle.

Once she got her arm free from his grip, Aubrey got out of bed. She bit her lip when Jack muttered something. Then he rolled over onto his back and took a heavy breath, still asleep. Relief crashed over her like a tidal wave. Tip-toeing to the door, Aubrey left it open so she could hear if he made any noise. She went straight for the kitchen to get a pot of coffee started.

As it brewed, she picked up his boots and put them by the front door, then opened the closet for the iron and ironing board. When she set the board against the wall, Aubrey didn’t close the door right away. She pushed aside some miscellaneous clothes they hanged in there, grabbing the hanger which supported the dark blue jacket of his dress uniform. Rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, Aubrey hooked the curved end of the wire hanger on the top of the closet door. She ran her thumb along the name engraved in white on the black tag— _Napier_. Then she curled her fingers along the light blue braided cord fastened around the right shoulder. Of all the accolades pinned or stitched onto the jacket, Aubrey knew Jack was most proud of his infantry cord, no matter how hard he tried to hide the truth because he never wanted to appear arrogant.

As handsome as he looked when wearing it and as proud of him as she was, Aubrey counted down the months, weeks, days, hours, and seconds until Jack hung it up for good.

Seven months, three weeks, four days, two hours, and forty-nine seconds.

Putting the jacket back, Aubrey gathered the supplies she came for, then set up in the family room. As the iron heated, she poured a cup of coffee—Splenda, no cream—then grabbed the laundry basket stuffed with Jack’s clean fatigues off of the dryer. While she ironed the uniforms and drank her coffee, Aubrey had the television on, though she kept the volume so low as to not wake him there wasn’t a point in having it on at all.

It took over an hour to meticulously iron, and then inspect five pairs of fatigues for loose threads. When she finished, she tucked the board in the corner so the iron could cool off, then rushed into the bathroom before Jack woke up for the day.

Opening up the medicine cabinet, it was muscle memory. The first thing Aubrey grabbed was Jack’s bottle of Zoloft. She uncapped it, dumped the pills into her palm and counted how many of the antidepressants there were. She repeated it with the Ativan and Abilify, relaxing a bit when she realized she’d been tied up in knots for no reason—Jack took his pills just as he promised.

The bubble of culpability for not believing him expanded in her throat, and Aubrey swallowed. It made her feel rotten for even allowing the seed of doubt to take root in her head. Jack seldom lied, and when he did and Aubrey confronted him with the truth, he said it was for her own good. To shelter her from the chaotic, capricious world they lived in. And she always forgave him, because if Jack—a man who’d seen people and the world at their worst—thought something was too brutal for her to handle, then she trusted his judgment.

Putting his pill bottles back as she found them, Aubrey shook out a Lexapro and Xanax for herself, setting them on the vanity beside the peony scented hand soap. She turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold as she knelt to sit back on her ankles, opening the cabinet under the sink. Aubrey grabbed the box of super absorbent tampons, plucking out the rectangular blister pack of Ortho Tri-Cyclen. With a dark blue-gray pill on her tongue, she put everything back then stood. Popping the other two pills in her mouth, Aubrey filled up a small glass with water, hesitating, then chugged.

The birth control was always the hardest for her to get down. It had nothing to do with her Catholic guilt; an onus Aubrey hasn’t experienced since she lost her virginity to Jack, at sixteen, in the back of his ‘93 Jeep Cherokee while the Sex Pistols’ _Never Mind the Bollocks_ played from the cassette player. What ate Aubrey alive was the qualm of knowing how badly Jack wanted a baby and here she was, doing everything possible to make sure it didn’t become a reality.

When they lived in Kosovo, that’s when she’d gone on the pill without Jack knowing.

During the rare months he wasn’t in Bosnia, they tried fruitlessly to get pregnant. Jack blamed Aubrey for the failure. Throwing it in her face she was too stressed, and that was why her body wouldn’t cooperate. She took his ruthless verbal spars in stride because he hadn’t been wrong—it was her _fault_ for the lack of missed periods despite the unremitting cream-pies Jack gifted her.

The biggest reason of all why Aubrey never once let his insults about her inoperative body get her down was because he was gone more often than he was home and separated from her family by thousands of miles. Aubrey knew she needed a kid like she needed a hole in head.

Nothing had been going right for them the entire time they were in Kosovo. It was pure, raw anarchy; his commanders were never truthful about how long he’d be home or how long he’d be in Bosnia, leaving all of their plans in upheaval.

It was stupid of them regardless, thinking the military _cared_ about their plans.

Things were looking up once they moved to Colorado, where she threw away a pack of pills before finishing it. But then the panic attacks and hallucinations started, and he got arrested for battery against another soldier, which resulted in a punishment under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. After his Article 15 hearing, Aubrey made an appointment to get back on the birth control—a baby would have to wait. Putting a family on the back burner _again_ had been a bitter pill to swallow.

Though unlike Jack, she didn’t let the setback pull her down into the undertow.

They just needed a little more time.

Shutting off the bathroom light, Aubrey headed back into the kitchen. She poured herself another cup of coffee, stirring three packets of Splenda into the steaming black liquid.

“You’ll rot your insides if you keep using that shit.”

The powerful hands on her hips startled Aubrey. A breath lodged in her throat, but found its way out once she felt the heat of Jack’s bare chest radiating into her back. She melted into him, biting her bottom lip as he nuzzled his nose into her hair, kissing her head.

Dropping the spoon on the counter after licking it clean, Aubrey spun around and wrapped her arms around his neck. She perched up on her tip-toes, gliding the tip of her nose along the bridge of his.

“I’d rather have rotten insides than a fat ass,” she giggled.

Jack took one hand off of her hip, slipping it under the elastic band of her panties, grabbing her ass-cheek. He kneaded the soft, firm flesh. “Your fat ass is one of your most endearing attributes, cupcake.”

His voice was guttural. Her stomach somersaulted, her knees turned to Jell-O. Jack’s mouth caught hers in a blistering kiss akin to a complete system reboot. His tongue—wet and warm—wasted no time seeking hers. They tangled, savoring the taste of one another. She would have collapsed had he not had that firm grip on her. She twisted her fingers in the chain of his dog-tags, inhaling when she felt the erection straining in the cotton briefs he wore press against her belly.

Jack broke the kiss and ripped his hand out of her panties. Aubrey groaned in protest, trying in vain to reconnect their lips, but he just pushed her away. She was extra insatiable, wanting to spend all day with him because once he left for work in the morning, she wouldn’t see him for three days.

Reaching over Aubrey’s shoulder, he grabbed the cup of coffee she mixed, claiming it for himself.

“You’ll rot your insides if you drink that shit,” Aubrey mimicked.

She rested back against the lip of the counter, crossing her ankles. She flexed her thighs, squeezing them tighter together, hoping that would be enough to silence the all-consuming quiver Jack ignited.

It didn’t.

Setting the mug on the small slab of counter space by the stove, Jack opened the fridge for the carton of heavy cream. He poured in a healthy serving, his strident laughter chilling Aubrey to the bone as he closed the fridge door with a little more force than usual.

His eyebrows shot up, bringing the mug to his mouth for a sip. Aubrey ignored how his warm brown eyes looked like two callous pools of black ink.

“Bold of you to assume it’ll be your shitty sugar that kills me first. Not a bullet through the forehead.” 

“Stop it—” she kicked him in the shin, and that earned another round of piercing laughter— “you know I hate it when you talk like that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crossing the kitchen, Jack pressed a wet kiss to Aubrey’s cheek on his way to the table. Once he sat down, he grabbed the previous day’s newspaper. “I’m starving, gorgeous. Mind making yourself useful and whip up something to eat?”

Rolling her eyes, Aubrey pushed off the counter and headed to the refrigerator. She opened it, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth as she grazed what was left on the shelves. There wasn’t much—eggs, milk, her leftover greasy Chinese takeout from last night—not feeling particularly up to doing the shopping.

“What do you have a taste for?” Gnawing on the tip of her long thumbnail, Aubrey glanced over to Jack.

He didn’t look up from the section of the paper he busied himself reading, instead just shrugging. “Whatever you want is fine.”

Always such the helpful one. 

From the top shelf in the refrigerator, Aubrey grabbed the milk and eggs. She still had flour left from when she made piroshki so pancakes it is. Dropping them on the counter, she strutted to the pantry next to the small kitchen table. When she opened it, reaching up to grab the almost empty bag of flour, she felt Jack’s eyes burning holes into her back. It was enough to set off a minor flare of uneasiness. With how unpredictable his mood swings have been as of late, it was getting harder and harder to decipher what he was feeling.

“What are you making?” he asked.

The gravel in his voice ignited a tremble in her hand. Aubrey tucked the bag of flour under her arm, hoping Jack didn’t see the sugar container shaking when she grabbed that, too.

“Pancakes.” Turning around, Aubrey’s heart fell into her stomach to see him standing from the table. Jack inched his way towards her, and she began taking steps back. When her back hit the wall, cornered, she held the sugar tight. If Jack saw that he was making her nervous, a fight Aubrey didn’t have the strength for would ensue. “Is that okay? I can make something else, but we don’t have much because I haven’t had the chance to get to the commissary.”

His eyes narrowed, and he flicked his tongue along his bottom lip. Aubrey didn’t like the way he was staring at her. She didn’t know what he’d go off about first—how she’d forgotten to iron his extra set of fatigues for the field training exercise this weekend, the laundry piling up, or the lack of food.

Either way, it would be about her peculiar streak of slacking on household responsibilities, and she wasn’t up for the challenge of explaining how unmotivated she’s been.

Aubrey flinched when Jack yanked the bag of flour out from under her arm, and snatched the container of sugar from her hands, putting them down on the counter.

“I want something else.”

“What do you wan—”

Aubrey was interrupted, and a shrill squeal of surprise escaped her mouth as Jack swung her around. He tossed her down on the kitchen table. Something told her it wasn’t food he had a taste for anymore when he tore the baggy t-shirt off of her torso, throwing the useless garment over his shoulder. He pushed his way between her dangling legs, leaning over Aubrey to press his full, sturdy lips to hers for a ravenous kiss.

It didn’t matter how many times they kissed, each brush of their lips was electrifying.

One of Aubrey’s hands threaded through Jack’s short hair, while the fingers on the other danced along the soft ridges of muscle on his abdomen. He licked her bottom lip, to which Aubrey returned the gesture before biting down on it. The sound of his bursting, throaty groan sent a chill down her spine. Rough, combat-worn hands glided up her sides, groping her breasts, rolling rosy beaded nipples between calloused fingers.

This time Aubrey broke the kiss, rolling her head to the side, losing herself in the jolts of searing pleasure while he slid her panties down and off.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, threatening to jump out of her chest any second. Every inch of her body ached for his touch, but her mind refused to let go of what happened the last time they had sex. She learned to indulge his kinks as they were nothing offbeat or demeaning, though as of late that seemed to change. There was no way of knowing what was bound to come out of his mouth, what he’d instruct her to do, or what he’d do.

Relax, Aubrey told herself.

It was only Jack pushing her limits. Opening her mind to a world she never knew existed as he’d done throughout their relationship. This was what kept things fresh and fun… far from boring. This was why they had the sex life most married couples were jealous of. They trusted each other enough so they could be at their most dirty, perverted, and undignified.

Jack took a step back, seizing the moment to shed his black briefs and kick them to the side. Before he had the chance to crawl between her legs again, Aubrey jutted her leg out, pressing her foot flush to his chest to stop him from coming any closer.

Aubrey cupped her breasts, and Jack eyed her keenly as they overflowed from her hands. She squeezed them, pushed them together, and then let them fall back to their natural position.

“Do you like my tits?” she mused.

Planting the other heel onto the edge of the table, Aubrey spread her legs just enough for him to get a small peek at her puffy, glistening slit. She wore the filthy little pout that drove him to the precipice of salacious insanity.

"They're gorgeous," he cooed, wrapping his hand around his cock.

Aubrey bit her lip when he stroked his diamond shaft. Parting her knees more, she ran a hand down her belly. Jack’s eyes followed, dropping his gaze to her opening displayed before him. Her fingers caressed her swollen clit, which she couldn’t wait to feel his tongue against.

“And my pussy. Do you like my pussy?”

Jack nodded in response, each stroke of his cock becoming snugger.

“Say it,” demanded Aubrey, in a clear voice laced with explicit need. Her breathed hitched with very pass she made on her clit. “Say it, Jack. Say how much you like my pussy.”

It was so cute when she thought she could take control. Jack figured he’d let her have it—let her think she had power here.

He growled, “I fucking love your sweet little cunt.”

“Do you want to fuck my sweet little cunt?”

“No.” Gripping Aubrey’s ankle, Jack tore her foot off of his chest. He set it on the table, grabbing the chair and sitting down so he was eye-level with her dripping cunt. “I’m gonna eat you out like it’s my last goddamn meal, _then_ I’ll bury my cock in you.”

Hearing the words spill out of his mouth like molasses, Aubrey slammed her knees together. A bizarre wave of self-consciousness knocking the breath out of her.

“Aubrey,” he warned.

The dark animus dripping from his words made Aubrey squirm, and not with anything resembling pleasure in the slightest. Jack hated waiting for something he frantically wanted, and she understood how much he loathed having to repeat himself even more.

Still, putting her pussy on the brunch menu was frying her nerves.

“I haven’t showered yet, and I’m in-between waxings.”

“I _don’t_ care.” Along the smooth flesh of her outer-thigh, he planted his lips. Between kisses, he muttered, “I had a very long, boring night, sweetheart, and all I wanna do is eat.” He smacked her thigh. “Now, open up for Daddy. You don’t want me to _starve_ , do you?”

Her knuckles turned white, fingers clinging to the lip of the table. Her eyes fluttered closed as her belly flipped and twisted in ways she never knew were possible. The husky tone, mixed with his torrid caress, hot breath blowing over her, and the debauched language, Aubrey surrendered. She parted her legs, exposing herself once and for all to a famished Jack.

Much to her surprise, he showed restraint. He brought his middle finger to her, ever so lightly teasing her slick opening.

“See—this happens when you’re a good girl who listens.”

Aubrey’s back arched off the table as he slipped the tip of his finger inside. She propped herself up on her elbows, wanting to watch every move he made, but Jack pressed a hand to the center of her chest and pushed her back down. With his unoccupied hand, he laced their fingers together, inching his middle finger further inside, until he was knuckle deep.

She squeezed his hand, writhing and panting. Tears sputtered from the corners of her closed eyes and a scream lodged in her strangled throat when Jack curled his finger, pressing and rubbing the squishy spot billeted deep in her core.

“J—Jack… oh, fuuuck,” she wheezed.

When her knees quaked Jack brought his mouth to her, adding another finger to his unrelenting digital assault. Aubrey’s back arched again, her head digging into the table as her brain registered the warmth of his tongue devouring her. As if he were licking a fast-melting ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day, he lapped her clit.

To Jack, Aubrey was an exquisite bourbon. One sip of her and his chest burned, while acting as the catalyst which drove him to violate the arbitrary morals of decency, sending him spiraling down into fiendish sin. Aubrey has always been his willing victim. His submissive toy in which he can act out his most nefarious urges. Jack could have her hogtied, her belly and ass full of cum, her face flooded with tears, and she’d still sniffle a blithesome _thank you_ to him.

His balls became heavy with cum, tight from surging arousal, listening to Aubrey’s greedy whimpers, and feeling how her body twisted to the brutal way he ravished her. Jack was crawling out of his skin. She was always so responsive to his touch, never hiding how she felt, eager to let him know what he did was bringing immeasurable pleasure.

Her mouth fell open, but not a single sound made it out. The only melody filling either of their ears were the notes of Jack’s wet mouth and soaked fingers working her to the brink of unraveling.

“Fuck—” she exclaimed through gritted teeth— “you’re gonna make me… I’m gonna…”

Aubrey’s eyes still screwed shut the stars behind her lid threatened to burst into supernovas. Her long fingernails clawed at his scalp and her thick thighs cuffed his ears.

Jack wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked, halting when he felt her clamp around his fingers.

“You motherfucking asshole!” roared Aubrey.

She was breathing heavily, frustrated by her lack of release. Letting go of Jack’s hand, she pushed the damp strands of hair off of her sweat slicked forehead.

Rising to his feet, Jack kicked the chair back. He leaned over her again, not bothering to wipe Aubrey from his mouth before plunging his tongue beyond her lips.Once he pulled away Jack smacked her breast, sending a nerve frying shock of excitement through her body.

“Don’t be selfish; it looks hideous on you. Don’t worry, I’ll get you off, brat.”

Aubrey wrapped her shaky legs around his hips, tucking a hand between their sweating bodies. She ran her fingers through the coarse hair along his lower-abdomen, taking his shaft in her hand. Using the soft pad of her thumb, she smeared the sticky, pearlescent bead of pre-cum along the velvet tip. Jack’s head snapped back, now his turn to squeeze his eyes closed. He bit his lip, snarling, falling face first into the serene reservoir of being jerked off.

At the first sign of the smoldering heat in his gut, he grabbed her wrist. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”

“Maybe that’s what I want; for you to cum all over me.” Aubrey teased, “I’m not _always_ a selfish brat.”

Jack smirked.

“I don’t want to cover your pretty face—” he cupped her jaw, smacking her cheek thrice— “I want to see my cum dripping from your cunt.”

Aubrey went lightheaded, surprised when Jack slid into her. A shuddering moan escaped her reddened, swollen lips at the delicious sting of him stretching her flesh. For a moment he stilled, letting Aubrey get used to having him inside. He moved his hips, fidgeting, unable to find an enjoyable angle. It didn’t take long for the frustration to dig its ugly claws into Jack, and he rumbled in annoyance, forcing Aubrey into stillness.

The last thing she wanted to do was move the wrong way and make him more irritated than he seemed already.

Roughly gripping one of her arms, Jack tossed it over his shoulder. When Aubrey got the message, she hooked the other one, hanging on as he stood up. The change of position made her clit grind against him. She let out a moan mixed with laughter, relishing in the way his fingers dug into the fatty tissue of her ass while he carried her to the couch.

Jack plopped down, the much improved deeper angle now doing wonders for them both. Her hands gripped his sturdy, broad shoulders while she planted her knees on the cushions, finding a steady bouncing pace.

Aubrey dipped her head for another kiss. All she focused on was the heat building between their bodies, and how she could still taste herself on his tongue. The kiss matched the rhythm of their hips—slow and deep.

“Just like that, baby,” he encouraged. With one hand on the small of her back, he helped guide the pace. Aubrey withered, her body shuddering when his thumb found her sensitive clit. Jack pressed their sweaty foreheads together, and they were both panting. “Look at you, so beautiful riding Daddy’s cock like such a good girl. Are you gonna cum for me?”

Her eyes rolled and her cunt throbbed. “I—I’m gonna… gonna…”

“You’re gonna _what_ , sweetheart?”

“Cum—oh, God. I’m gonna cum, Daddy.”

Letting her mind and body go, a bolt of lightening hit Aubrey. The climax was higher than she ever imagined. She was so high, time came to a grinding halt. Everything around her ceased to exist, allowing her to come undone under Jack’s influence. 

The pooling fire in his veins was too hot to ignore. Realizing how dangerously close he was to spilling inside of her, Jack was feeling more merciful than usual. He kept rubbing her overstimulated, swollen clit, draining every ounce of ecstasy from her. Normally, he’d make her beg for the euphoric release only _good girls_ earned, but he’d gotten too far ahead of himself, overzealous to hear Aubrey’s broken hedonistic cries.

That’s okay. He’d more than make up for it later.

Blissed out in her orgasm, Aubrey was far too gone to care when Jack grabbed her sides, tossing her to the floor on her back. He slid off the couch, rolling Aubrey to her stomach, and then helping her up onto her hands and knees.

The gentleness he’d shown minutes before was gone. Without warning, he bottomed out, giving her no time to adjust as his pace turned wanton and intense. Jack never grew old of seeing Aubrey on all fours for him, hearing her howl with every brute thrust. He ran a hand up the length of her spine, loving how her back arched and her ass grinding even more into him when he tickled the bony column. Curling his fingers around her shoulder, they dug into her flesh with bruising force, while his other hand threaded into her hair, gripping it taut at the roots.

Keeping her head forward, Aubrey reached behind her and rested a soft hand on the outer part of his thigh. Tears brimmed her eyes, and her lower lip trembled. “Fuck… fuck, Jack, you—you feel so good. Fill me up with your cum like you said you would.”

Jaw locked, teeth clenched, hips powering back and forth, Jack slammed his cock into her again and again until his world fell like a house of cards. He pulled her hair, she cried out his name one last time.

That’s when he lost control.

Jack let go of her hair, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. A throaty yell spilling from his mouth as his thrusting slowed, coating her pulsing walls in spurts of thick, hot cum.

The added weight of him on top of her, Aubrey’s weakened limbs gave out, sending them tumbling to the floor.

Exhausted, Aubrey closed her eyes. She tried to catch her breath, though she wasn’t in too much of a hurry to let the fleeting bliss fade away yet. Her mind wandered to a place of contentment, leaving her to feel clingy and selfish.

Hoisting off of her, Jack fell on to his haunches. He wiped the sweat from his forehead while reaching between Aubrey’s extended legs, spreading her puffy lips to see the milky aftermath of his orgasm trickle from the abused hole.

A haughty smirk stretched across his face. Jack spanked her ass, jiggling the cheek in his hand.

“I apologize, Mrs. Napier, as it seems I’ve made quite a mess.”

Aubrey rolled over onto her back, keeping one leg extended while bending the other at the knee. She had a post-coital glow of the likes he’s never seen before. The freshly fucked smile, messy hair, the flush blotches spreading along her neck and chest. She was far more beautiful than he ever remembered her being, and Jack was unsettled by how his heart swelled.

Reaching out, Aubrey grabbed the chain to his dog-tags, tugging. Jack obliged. He crawled over her, caging her body with his.

“If you shower with me, and help clean up,” she kissed him, “then _maybe_ I’ll forgive you.”

Jack lifted his hand off of the floor, looking at his watch. “No can do, cupcake.”

Aubrey’s brain short-circuited. The last thing she ever expected was for Jack to turn down the offer for another round of guaranteed sex.

“Wait—why? Got a hot date?”

“I do.” He licked his bottom lip, his unsuppressed cackles escaping through his nose when her smile faded, twisting into something more malicious. “So kind of you to, uh, ask.”

She bolted up onto her elbows. “With who?! You better not be headed back—”

Jack shut her up with a kiss.

“Since you’re so goddamn nosy, and must know everything… it’s with you.” When she furrowed her eyebrows, Jack realized her post-orgasm brain was having a troublesome time making sense of what he told her. He kissed her forehead and then pushed her back down. “To make up for missing our anniversary on Saturday, I’m taking you out today. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Aubrey lit up like Christmas morning. She slapped a hand over her mouth, squealing. “Are you serious?”

“Jesus, Aubs. How much of an asshole do you think I am? Yeah, I’m serious. Just because I’ve got FTX this weekend didn’t mean we weren’t celebrating at all.”

Swallowing, shame prickled her skin. Now she felt like the asshole for thinking Jack didn’t care he’d be away for their seventh wedding anniversary.

“Where are we going?” she asked, lacing her fingers on the nape of his neck.

“Nice try.” He pried her hands off of him and then stood up.

A smile tugged at the corner of Aubrey’s lips as she watched Jack strut into the kitchen and grab a clean glass from the rack beside the sink.

“You’re not very nice.”

“If I was nice, you never would have married me.” He filled the glass to the rim with water from the tap, then chugged. “Make it fast if you’re gonna shower, ‘cause I’m jumping in too. Wanna wash your filth off of me.”

Aubrey stood up, her legs shaking like Bambi. As she walked to the bathroom, she muttered, “Douche.”

“What was that, cupcake?”

“Love you!”

* * *

Jack smelled the bittersweet tang of burning tobacco and curled his fingers tighter around the plush covered steering wheel.

He glanced over to Aubrey, his forehead creasing in frustration seeing the tan and freckled white butt of a Marlboro loosely clamped between her fingers as she blew a thin stream of smoke out of the cracked window. It was a losing battle, keeping her from smoking. One he’d never stop fighting because Jack despised when she did. No matter how many times he told her she looked classless doing it, his harsh criticisms did little to deter.

Reaching over, he snatched it from her grip, flicking it out of his window while she whined in protest. In retrospect, he only had himself to blame for being the one whom she picked up the unhealthy habit from when she was only a sophomore in high school, and he a junior. Jack wasn’t dumb. He knew Aubrey smoked when he wasn’t around, having found her stash of American Spirit’s once or twice when she got sloppy with her hiding spots. More often than not, she attempted to cover her tracks. Only when she wanted to get a rise out of Jack did she so brazenly light up in front of him.

“What did I do now?” he spat.

Jack kept his eyes on the stretch of deserted highway in front of him, though he was growing twitchy from the sudden simmer in his blood.

“You did nothing.”

Why did she always have to fucking do this? Speak with hidden messages behind her words instead of coming right out and telling him he’s an asshole. It would make things so much easier for them both if she had the balls to cut through the bullshit rather than delay a fight that would boil over and blindside him in a couple of days.

Jack looked over at her again, taking note of how she was twirling the small diamond engagement ring around her finger. Then it hit him like a high-speed train.

“This is because I didn’t take leave for tomorrow. I told you months ago I wouldn’t have the weekend off because—”

Aubrey held up her hand to stop him from talking. A move she knew he couldn’t fucking stand. Now it seemed like she was intentionally trying to set fire to his fuse, one that had become shorter and shorter the longer they’ve been together.

“I know what you told me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be a little annoyed that you chose our anniversary, of all weekends, to go play G.I. Joe.”

Jack did a double take to his right just to make sure it was in fact Aubrey sitting next to him, not some cloned-alien version.

He couldn’t believe that asinine thought left her mouth. Was she serious? Pinning this on him. Her words, sharp as a dagger, pierced a nerve Jack didn’t even know was exposed.

He slammed his fist on the dashboard, startling her. Aubrey jumped out of her skin, then sank into the seat. Her mind was racing, mentally slapping herself for even saying anything because she should have known better.

“Don’t start that shit with me! Where the fuck have you been for the last eight years, if you think I had any say in FTX being scheduled this weekend?! Do you really think I want to spend our anniversary freezing my balls off in the woods, not at home fucking your brains out?”

When silence met Jack, he hit the dashboard again. “Do you?”

From the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head, using the sleeve of her sweater to wipe the tears before they fell.

She was cowering to him.

“Be a big girl, Aubs,” he taunted. “C’mon, use your words.”

“No!” She sniffled hard, trying to hide the evidence of her crying. “I know you’d rather be home with me. I’m sorry for bringing it up!”

Aubrey couldn’t apologize enough. Here was Jack doing the best he could to make up for missing their special day, and she was making him feel like it was going unappreciated.

Listening to her whimper like some fragile little girl only made his blood boil. She never used to be this sensitive. All that changed after she started taking the antidepressant and anti-anxiety medications. They were poisoning her mind, stopping her from feeling a morsel of basic human emotion because that would be the worst thing to happen to her. Jack wanted the lioness Aubrey once was. The woman who was never afraid to bare her teeth and show him her claws. She had been one of the few people in Jack’s life courageous enough to put him in his place when he crossed the line. Her strength had been the reason _he_ followed her around for months like a lost puppy in desperate need. Every time she rejected his offer to go on a date, that only made him want her more, made _him_ beg.

And now…

Jack glared at Aubrey, but she was too busy wiping away those pitiful tears from her cheeks to see the manifestation of disgust on his face.

“What are you crying about now?”

Aubrey wanted to reach over and slap him, just like how he smacked her those few times she got a little too mouthy.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Uh, nothing?” He swiped his tongue along the corner of his mouth. “It’s not _nothing_. It’s those goddamn pills… they’re doing neither of us any good.”

A bubble burst in Aubrey’s belly, a flash of white-hot indignation singeing her from head-to-toe. To some extent he was right; it was the pills. The birth control was exasperating the mild depression and anxiety he was causing her. If he would have just listened to her four years ago and not re-enlisted, or at the very least took his sanctioned therapy sessions seriously, she wouldn’t need the pills at all.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Propping her foot up on the top of the side-door compartment, Aubrey was so angry, the tears dried themselves.

“Fuck you, Jack.” Her voice was calm and penetrating.

It sent chills through Jack, which peculiarly warmed him, churning out a cackle that gurgled deep in his chest.

The muscles in her jaw flexed, her fingernails were digging into her denim covered thighs—signs that Jack decoded a long time ago. She was talking herself out of sucker punching him in the nose. 

Jack wanted her fist—the one he showed her how to form—to pop him square in the face. He wanted it to feel like he’d been struck by lightening. For his eyes to water. To taste the sharp metallic tang of blood dripping down the back of his throat. He wanted to see her knuckles stained sanguine.

She was so close to giving him what he wanted.

A reminder he was still alive.

Extending his arm, Jack pinched Aubrey’s cheek hard enough to make her yelp. She slapped his hand away, trying to move as far away from him as she could, without jumping out of the car going 80mph.

“You’re spending too much time with those, uh, other wives. All you need to do now is start having an affair and you’ll be in with the inner-circle, cupcake. You always were so… _pathetic_. Falling all over yourself so the popular girls like you. Accept you. If I’d known you’d be too fucking weak to handle being with me, I never would’ve put my dick in you… what a fucking _mistake_ that was.”

Aubrey felt her soul collapsing in on itself with every venom soaked word he lobbed at her. The only choice she had was to sit there and take it. He’s not in his right mind; before she knew it, her Jack would be back. All smiles, cheesy jokes, and contagious laughter. What he said was the rambling of a broken, defeated man, needing to bring down those within his grasp. Because so long as everyone around him was miserable too, then he wasn’t the one with the problem.

She couldn’t over look the irony in him accusing her of being the weak one. If anyone of them were weak, Aubrey knew it wasn’t her. She possessed the strength to admit when she needed help and to accept it. There was nothing for her to prove, leaving her to wonder who Jack was trying to spite by rabidly insisting he’s _fine_.

Himself, most likely. His commanders, too, because nothing brought him more joy than moving up the chain of command. But Aubrey knew the malevolence grew from the vituperative relationship he had with his father.

A part of her refused to let go of a tattered shred of hope that maybe Jack would come around; see there isn’t any shame or harm in needing a little help every once in a while.

“Are you done?” she asked, as if she were speaking to a child.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t look at her either. Just kept driving.

Ten minutes later, Jack pulled into a parking lot off of a two-lane highway. He picked a spot that was the furthest from the entrance of a shabby looking warehouse, killing the engine of the Honda Civic they shared.

When Aubrey saw the giant sign reading _laser tag_ , she would have jumped with excitement had she not been so pissed at him.

The tension between them was high. The animosity was so thick Jack choked on it. In his head, he replayed the very one-sided conversation that had gone down. He didn’t feel bad for what he said—one should never be sorry for feeling a certain way—but that didn’t mean he should have been vocal. She had enough going on in that hurricane mind of hers. The last thing she needed was him dropping a tornado.

“Aubrey.” Leaning his head back against the headrest, Jack shifted his neck to look at her. She didn’t acknowledge him, which only intensified the ache in his chest. “Aubs, look at me.”

“What makes you think I want to talk to you, let alone look at you?”

“Well, I mean you’re talking to me now, so…”

Snapping her head to face Jack, it took him back at how dark her eyes were. The pupils so blown they hid any proof of her blue irises.

“Do you hear yourself? Like, are you aware of the shit you say to me?” Aubrey held her breath as she waited for Jack to answer. This was one of those times where she hoped he’d lie to her.

If he admitted to not being conscious of the insults he hurled at her, Aubrey wasn’t sure if she knew how to handle it.

She could barely help him through the panic attacks as it is.

Jack was aware. He was agonizingly aware of every single syllable, tasting the sour, bitter coating they always left on his tongue. A reminder that lasted for days, sometimes weeks, after spitting the words at her. He always wanted to stop it before they left his mouth, but it seemed like someone else was in his brain, forcing them out for him.

Nothing destroyed him like seeing Aubrey upset. Not even burying his mother fazed Jack as much as Aubrey bursting into tears did. He used to be a lot better at this, and it was frustrating feeling so out of control.

“Yeah, and I’m sorry, Aubs. It’s just… you know how I get when I’m frustrated. I’m like my old man; can’t keep my fucking mouth shut. I promise, I didn’t mean any of it. You’re the best thing that happened to me—not for a single second do I think us getting married was a mistake. Shit, my first year in was hell, waiting for you to turn eighteen and graduate so we could get hitched and start our life together.”

“Please, you’re just saying that. We both know the only reason you wanted to get married is because you hated living in the barracks. I was your meal-ticket to get base housing.”

“Guilty as charged,” breathed Jack. “You were the one stupid enough to date my low-life ass, when all the other broads in school stayed as far away from me as possible. You deserved none of this. I fucked up your life good, didn’t I?”

Aubrey recoiled, wincing at the sensation of being stabbed in the chest over and over. He was floating back down to reality, surveying the damage he’d left in his wake. At least this time the destruction was emotional. No broken glass for Aubrey to sweep up; Jack didn’t have to make the awkward trip to the hardware store for supplies to fix a hole his fist made in the drywall.

Taking a deep breath, some stress melted off of Aubrey. She unclenched her jaw and took off her seatbelt, leaning over so she could engulf Jack in a tender embrace. Nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck, her head swam from the lingering fragrance of his cedarwood and citrus soap.

The comforting warmth radiating from Aubrey lulled Jack. He’s never been a hugger, so he did his version of one—he rested a hand between her shoulder blades and gripped the thick cotton of her sweater. Her soft almond shampoo reminded him of better days he wished they could get back.

“You didn’t fuck my life up,” she mumbled into his neck. Aubrey sensed Jack’s muscles tensing, so she caressed the back of his neck. “You did this for us. So we could have a better life.”

“I’m not sure how much, uh, better all of this is.”

Aubrey lifted her head, pushing her lush, black waves out of her face, her eyes fixated on Jack’s. “Are you… oh wow, you’re serious. I mean, the last eight years haven’t been ideal, but I think it’s way better than if we’d stayed in Gotham.”

Jack twirled his finger in the ends of her hair. “You think so? You don’t blame me for everything not going like we planned it to?”

“I do. And, never—there’s nothing to blame you for. Not everything can be controlled and crafted. Sometimes you just have to let things… be. With a little of guidance, of course. And if there’s anything I’ve learned being with you, it’s that for some twisted reason, we thrive in the chaos.” When Jack’s gaze averted from hers, Aubrey put two fingers under his chin, lifting so he’d look at her again. “I think that is what’s been bothering you so much. You’re having a hard time coming to terms with the fact your enlistment is almost over and going back to a—a normal life is scaring you.”

“I can’t go back and do a fucking nine-to-five, Aubs, I—”

“I’m not expecting you to,” she interrupted. “My Dad told you last Christmas he’d be more than happy to have you come work for him.”

“Yeah, but I know that’s not what you want. If it were, you wouldn’t have had such a fit when you found out I was running errands for him.”

Jack watched Aubrey’s face contort, years of repressed vexation bubbling to the surface.

“I’m not some Bratva princess, Jack. I don’t need that life to make me happy. I’d rather be penniless as long as it’s with you.”

“Well, you are a Bratva princess, but that’s besides the point, cupcake.” To see her smile again, Jack mustered the best Russian accent he could, “I’m thinking this is your way of telling me I’m not cut out for the life.”

Aubrey laughed. She cupped his sharp jaw, rubbing the apple of his cheek with her thumb. “Oh, I know you are.”

Jack cocked his eyebrows. She didn’t have to say another word for him to realize her cognitive dissonance was wrecking havoc in that little brain of hers. She wanted him out of the Army, but she didn’t want to back home because the last thing she wanted was for him to fall in deep with the Russian mafia. The prospect of jail stints wasn’t what scared her—the Army prepared her for those.

What rattled her to the bone was knowing he’d be good at it.

He didn’t take offense to her making him believe the opposite, and he kept his mouth shut about it.

For now.


	3. Chapter 3

Hearing Jack's key crunch in the deadbolt, Aubrey swore under her breath, turned off the news, and jumped off the couch.

She scurried into the kitchen pulling plates and glasses from the cabinet to set the table, which she promised she’d do by the time he got back with the pizza. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jack waltz in. He plopped the grease stained box into the center of the table before unzipping his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. She grabbed the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge; he opened the box to toss three slices of mushroom, onion, and green pepper onto her plate. Aubrey sat down, tucking an ankle under her knee, pouring their drinks, thanking him.

Mostly they ate in silence, coming down from the high of their afternoon excursion—a rare opportunity for them to let loose and allow their inner-child to run free. It was the break from reality neither realized they needed. So caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, Aubrey hated how easy it was to forget to stop and smell the flowers every once in a while.

There was nothing unnerving about the quiet for Jack. He like it when Aubrey shut her mouth for five minutes, allowing him the opportunity to think in peace. As he worked on eating his second slice, he fixated on the magnetic pad of paper stuck to the side of the dented refrigerator where Aubrey, in her too perfect handwriting, scribbled down a list of things he needed to pack for the weekend.

Well, the things _she_ needed to pack.

He never squared away his own duffle; that was something she always did for him. At first it made him feel like a child—mommy making sure he was prepared for a slumber party—but her act of genuine kindness grew on him.

No one ever did anything from the generosity in their heart. There was always an ulterior motive. The very act of kindness was a front, as fake as the smiles he received daily.

But maybe—just maybe—sweet Aubrey, who's always been a little too soft for this world, was the exception, not the rule.

At least that's what Jack wanted to believe.

He glanced over to her, watching as she bounced her leg. Her nervous ticks always drove him a little closer to the edge. He knew how much she disliked the silence. It was like having a pillow pressed to her face. Although she seemed calm on the outside, Jack envisioned how she must be clawing and thrashing, using every ounce of her strength to push away the suffocating weight.

She'd only relax once he was gone. The only way she could bask in the stillness was when he wasn't home, too busy and safe from the wheels turning in his head.

When he was someone else's _problem_.

"I found the brand of waterproof paint you like," said Aubrey. "For your face."

Jack tossed his crust into the box, picking up another slice. "Oh, yeah?"

This was the most frustrating to her. All Aubrey wanted was a civil conversation before communication was cut. She tried not to take it personal. Leaving was just as hard on him as it was for her. Putting the wedge between them would make it easier for Jack to get dressed in the morning.

Leaning back in his chair, Jack tugged a small box from the pocket of his sweatshirt. He carelessly tossed it next to Aubrey's plate, making no effort to meet her gaze.

Aubrey looked down at the box wrapped in white paper as if it were a glowing relic from Chernobyl. She wiped her greasy fingers on the napkin sprawled on her thigh.

"What's this?" she asked.

"If you open it, you'll answer your own question."

Picking it up, she dug her finger into the corner of the wrapping paper. Her heart raced so fast, she was sure he could hear the echoing thuds. It was odd he'd be giving this to her, making Aubrey wonder what he's trying to make-up for. 

Probably the explosive fight they had last week. The one that left Aubrey with a painful bruise and her spirit shattered. 

Jack wasn't into the whole idea of giving gifts. Showing _love_ through material possessions was shallow to him. Anniversary, birthday, Christmas—she knew she'd never find a box with her name on it from Jack. By now, the greatest gift he gave her was fighting his gag-reflex as he forced out an uncomfortable _love you_.

Aubrey didn't need him to say those savory words. It went without question that he loved her. Jack just showed it in his own peculiar way. But when he did sourly mumble them on the rare, special occasion, she lapped up every ounce of his mawkish affection, like a gluttonous child given a rubber spatula dripping with rich, chocolate cake batter.

Balling up the wrapping paper, Aubrey tossed it aside and shimmied the lid off of the box. Seeing the small pink and silver charm in the shape of a cupcake for her bracelet, her heart jumped into her throat.

"Oh, my God." Aubrey smiled at him, jumping up to press a kiss to his cheek. "It's amazing! Thank you!"

Jack pushed her back into the chair. "It's not a big deal."

Except it was. To him, the simple cupcake maybe no big deal, but to Aubrey it meant the world. A token of what made them cross paths in the first place, and the reason for the pet name he started calling her when Aubrey refused to tell him her name for a month after they met.

Unclasping her bracelet, Aubrey hooked the cupcake next to the heart Jack had given her on their last night together prior to him leaving for boot camp.

She got up from the table, dragging the chair behind her as she made her way to the refrigerator. Jack watched with a suspicious eye as she stepped onto the chair, blindly feeling around the top of it for something. When she found what she was looking for, Aubrey came back to the table with a large rectangle box wrapped in matte black paper.

"I thought you said you weren't getting me anything this year, hmm?" he mused, taking the gift she offered.

Shrugging, Aubrey settled back into her chair. "I guess I'm full of surprises like you are."

Jack smirked. He unwrapped the gift, his pupils doubling when he pulled out a bayonet. Fist gripped around the handle, he slid the thick leather shield off of the blade. It was sharpened to a point the likes of which he's never seen.

He wished it was serrated. Unfortunately for him, bringing a serrated knife into combat is a war crime. Jack always thought the concept of _war crimes_ was a bad joke.

Turns out, contrary to love, all truly isn't fair in war.

 _What kind of bullshit is that_? he wondered.

"Holy shit, Aubs."

Biting her bottom lip, Aubrey failed to hide her smile. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning who got everything he wanted and more.

A few months ago he mentioned his current bayonet was too old, not sharpening the way he wanted. It was driving him crazy with how long it was taking to be issued a new one.

Jack didn't care bayonets were obsolete. The close-quarters combat training had been his favorite, and having a knife strapped to his thigh always made him feel a little more… secure, in control. Their ammunition was being restricted thanks to a global shortage, which didn't bode well for him. Coupled with the reality that his rifle jammed more often than it should because the magazines were loaded wrong or never cleaned, Jack—unlike most of the men in his company—never thought twice about going for the knife that has yet to fail him.

"You like it?"

"Like it?" Jack twisted the bayonet around, studying every inch of the black steel. "I love it. It's—it's… how much did this cost?"

Aubrey grimaced.

She wished he'd stop fussing so much over money.

Getting up again, she walked behind Jack and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck.

"That's for me to know. Don't bother going through the credit card statement because I paid cash."

"It didn't come from your father, did it?"

It was a worthless question to ask. Even if she got the money from her dad, she'd never admit it. Not after how he exploded on her the handful of times she reached out for help to cover rent when the housing allowance wasn't enough. His stubbornness to live off base was the reason they were falling behind on bills, and given they've lived in four states and two European countries in the last eight years, finding steady employment was futile for Aubrey.

She missed the work she'd done for the State Department while living in Kosovo, translating Russian documents related to the Yugoslav conflict, and acting as an interpreter when Russian military personnel visited the American base.

"Nope—" she kissed his temple, then collected their plates and brought them to the dishwasher— "I started turning tricks."

Jack's head snapped up, and he pointed the bayonet at Aubrey.

"I know you're joking, but that shit ain't funny."

"I'm joking, huh?"

It took every ounce of self-control she had not to break character and laugh. The deep creases in his forehead, the furrowed brow, eyes as black as night, Aubrey wondered how far he was from having a stroke.

When she finished loading the dishwasher, she strutted over to Jack and plopped down on his lap. He set the bayonet on the table, curling an arm around her sides.

"You're high maintenance," quipped Aubrey. "If I didn't turn tricks, I wouldn't be able to spoil you with a bayonet, nor would I be able to get my pussy waxed every month as you like it."

Grabbing the back of her neck, Jack pulled her face closer to his. He kissed her bottom lip. "You know how to make a man feel special."

"I had a lot of practice while you were deployed."

Jack wrapped Aubrey's hair in his fist and tugged her head back to expose the blank canvas of her soft neck.

"Watch yourself, Mikhailov," he muttered, peppering her neck with nips and kisses. "You're venturing into very dangerous territory. That mouth of yours is writing cheques your ass won't happily cash."

With his free hand, Jack unsnapped the button of her jeans, fingers plunging under the waistband of her panties. He circled her clit, refusing to touch it, smug to find she was already wet and eager for him.

"Don't tease me."

It was too late before Aubrey realized her mistake.

He tore his hand from her panties and released her hair, nudging her off to stand.

"Well, you're no fun." Swiping the bayonet from the table, Jack headed toward the bedroom. "I'll go play with my other _toy_ then."

* * *

After packing his bag, Aubrey showered.

She scrubbed with the body wash which drove Jack wild. When her skin radiated the aroma of berries, jasmine, and amber, he was never too far behind unable to quench his rapacious thirst. Stepping out onto the bathmat, she dried off and wrang out her curls.

Steam wafted out of the bathroom when she left, going into the bedroom where she found Jack lying on top of the quilt. He was in his boxers and a plain white t-shirt, his shoulders slouching on the headboard with both knees perched, a book resting on his thighs.

Neither of them spoke as Aubrey changed for bed. The fierce shift of the ambience made her itch.

Jack glanced up from his book. Her back was to him as she bent down to dig through the dresser drawer, putting her bare ass on full display. The ivory flesh was blemished; speckled with bruises in various stages of healing. Some were blueish-purple, others an unsightly shade of yellow and green. But they were all _his_ handiwork, the aftermath of handcuffing her to the wrought iron headboard and bringing the belt down on her.

He shifted to reposition the inconvenient erection, annoyed by her attempt to entice him with that damned body wash which smelled like heaven on her. All Jack thought about now was tackling her to the floor, tying her ankles together, and her wrists behind her back before doling out the proper punishment for being so rude and interrupting his quiet time. Her screaming, crying, pleas for mercy echoed in his ears. The flashing visions of stuffing panties into her mouth to muffle the pathetic blubbering while she wriggled with every crack of his belt only made him grow stiffer.

Aubrey took her spankings like such a _good girl_. It was for that reason Jack had a troublesome time controlling himself around her. Her inherent innocence and ache to please him was kryptonite—the combination was dangerous, dragging out an aggression not quite understood.

As he watched her shimmy into an exhausted pair of p.t. sweatpants he long ago retired, Jack's mouth watered. He loved how they fit a little too snuggly around her wide, rounded hips. Though, when his eyes traveled north, his mouth filled with sawdust and his blood turned to ice.

The angry blue-red bruise mottling the back of her ribcage was laughing at him. Jack hadn't meant to lose his temper and pelt her with the heavy glass ashtray, but there were only so many times he could tell Aubrey not to fill-in her acrylic nails inside. The acrid smell of the chemicals permeated the apartment which he couldn't stand.

"Like what you see?"

Aubrey's question sent Jack spiraling back to reality. He looked into the mirror attached to the back of her dresser and met her gaze. The hankering in her eyes turned them just as dark as his were.

"You're not aging as, uh, _gracefully_ as you think you are, cupcake," he breathed. Jack brought his attention back to the book in his lap. "I keep telling you to hit the gym more, and it's obvious you're not listening. Don't think I didn't notice the jeans you bought last month were _two_ sizes bigger than usual."

He tsked, turning the page.

"I am hitting the gym," she defended. The thick strain in her voice didn't fall on deaf ears. She was almost in tears.

"Well, obviously not hard enough."

Aubrey turned to the side and looked into the mirror. Between her thumb and forefinger, she pinched at the small pouch in her belly and the slight love-handles she seemed to carry around.

"It's water-weight; I'm bloated because my period is like a week away."

"Mhmm. Keep telling yourself that." Jack looked up to Aubrey again, licking the corner of his mouth as he jabbed his thumb towards the kitchen. "I saw you went to town on that package of Oreo's."

Deciding against the black wife-beater tank top she picked out, Aubrey grabbed a long-sleeved shirt with bleach stains from the laundry basket. She slipped it on, pulling her damp hair out of the collar.

"Why are you being such an asshole?"

Jack scratched the back of his neck, wracking his brain for an answer. It was complicated. She'd never believe him if he came right out and told her she always became a little more affectionate, needy, whenever he pushed her buttons. And tonight, Jack didn't want to be alone.

No fucking way was he going to initiate that. He had to push Aubrey into making the first move.

"So being honest makes me an asshole?"

Aubrey took a deep breath, gearing up to throw an insult at him, but all she did was huff and leave the room.

"Try not to eat the _entire_ pint of ice cream, hmm!" he yelled to her.

Fighting the sting of tears, Aubrey marched to the kitchen. She didn't bother turning on the lights as she opened the pantry and grabbed the box of Frosted Flakes from the top shelf. Digging inside, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic pink lighter.

It was too cold to smoke outside, so she lit up right there. Taking a deep drag, she half-collapsed into a chair at the table. Her mind screamed at her to walk back to the bedroom and punch him right in the mouth for what he said. Had it been anyone else saying that shit to her, she wouldn't have hesitated ripping into them.

The somewhat fresh bruise on her back told her not to push the issue any further. That was all the reminder she needed not to upset him.

"… Such a fucking asshole,”she muttered.

Jack being gone for the weekend didn't seem so bad now.

Taking one last drag from her cigarette, Aubrey extinguished it by running it under water in the sink, tossed it into the garbage, and then put the cigarettes and Frosted Flakes back into the pantry. She drummed her nails on the counter, realizing just the thing that would seduce him out of his foul mood.

Sauntering to the front closet, Aubrey grabbed the glass chess set. As quiet as she could be, she set it up on the coffee table, then headed into the kitchen again to pour a glass of red wine for herself and a whiskey for him.

Back in the family room, she set the whiskey down by the frosted pieces and her wine by the clear ones. Jack refused to play a game of chess unless he had command of the opaque pieces.

Once she collected herself a little more, found her zen, Aubrey headed to the bedroom. She rested her shoulder against the doorjamb. He didn't look up from his book, despite seeming more fidgety than when she'd left him.

Around her fingers, Aubrey twirled the frayed drawstring from the sweatpants. Somewhere deep inside, she found the courage to disrupt him. "Wanna play a game of chess?"

"Another time," he mumbled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Aubrey ignored the sinking feeling in her belly. She would not give up this easily, determined to salvage the night.

"I do, but I've already set up the board and I even poured you some Crown. Three fingers, neat; just as you like."

Jack exhaled a vociferous sigh, snapping the book shut and tossing it onto the nightstand.

"Since you went through all that trouble…"

Now her efforts seemed inconsequential, him walking right past her as if he was doing her a favor. Aubrey almost turned around to tell him to forget it, but she stopped short. If she did, then all he'll do is follow her around for the rest of the night and jeer about how she's too scared to play him. Piqued by mockery is not how Aubrey planned on spending the rest of the night.

She followed him into the family room and sat on the floor across from him at the coffee table. Jack made a show of cracking his neck and inspecting the board—like he always did when she set it up—as if he thought she somehow rigged it in her favor. Aubrey took a sip of wine, not letting it bother her because she knew it was a tactic to put her on edge, make it harder for her to hone into the logical part of her brain.

It was unwarranted. Nine times out of ten, Jack wiped the floor with her. His skill was nothing Aubrey could compete with, despite the years she's put in practicing playing online with strangers, or teenagers at the recreation center of whichever base they were stationed. No matter what, he was always miles ahead of her. Even when they were dating, Jack refused to _let_ her win every once in a while.

The only thing which kept Aubrey coming back for more was knowing he admired her abnegation.

"Your move," said Jack, lighting a cigarette. "Ladies first, I suppose."

Drumming her fingers on her lips, Aubrey studied the board while Jack studied her. There was no such thing as _out-smarting_ him. Her only option was to move the pieces and hope for the best. Remembering all the times he chastised her for playing a pawn first, she went for the knight.

Jack set his cigarette in the ashtray, taking a drink from the glass of whiskey. He let the booze spread from his chest to the rest of his body, realizing Aubrey was trying to take control of the center of the board.

A strategy she learned from watching him.

He mimicked her move.

This was going to be a long game.

For half-an-hour they played steadily. It was a battle of wit and logic, the both of them showing up to win. Aubrey more than impressed Jack with how long she was holding on for, her collection of pieces growing larger than his, and she was closing in on his king.

She's adapting; becoming smarter. He appreciated the challenge, sure, but he far from liked it. There was something so enjoyable about watching her face sink in defeat. His heart pounded when he caught the glimmer of hope in her eye; she thought she was going to win, and for a split second he did, too.

"What's your favorite piece?" blurted Aubrey.

Jack shrugged. "What's yours?"

"The queen."

"How _original_." Polishing off the rest of the whiskey, he moved his rook to take out her last pawn. "Why the queen?"

"Because she's the most fluid. She can move anywhere from any direction, which makes her more powerful than all other pieces on the board. And she has the greatest duty—" she moved her queen three spaces in front of her king, blocking Jack from checking with his bishop. Lifting her gaze to him, he noticed how her eyes were soft, yet burned with the fierce stealthiness of a lioness ready to pounce. "The queen protects her king."

"Yes, but the queen should always be protected, too." Stretching his leg under the table, Jack tangled it with hers. "If she's brought out too early, she's left vulnerable. Only those who are inept and weak will sacrifice their queen. I would never sacrifice mine."

Aubrey leaned back against the couch, keeping their legs coiled.

That's the closest she'd ever get to him telling her he cares.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I wouldn't say I have a favorite, but if you're going to make me choose, I guess it'd be the knight."

"And here I thought you'd say the bishop. Why the knight, though? Not many people would agree."

Jack propped his elbow on the table, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he turned his attention back to the board.

"That's because most people don't know how to use their knights. It's the most correctly named piece—it's for brutal combat, not afraid to get-up-close-and-personal."

Lowering his hand, Jack clamped his remaining knight between his fingers. Aubrey clenched her jaw as he slid it across the board, knocking her king out. He hoisted up onto his knees, supporting himself as he leaned over the table to press a light kiss to the side of her mouth.

"Checkmate," he whispered.

"Rematch?"

Jack sat on his haunches. He grabbed the Styrofoam block and started putting the pieces away. "When I get back on Sunday. You should get some sleep because we've got an early start tomorrow."

The night before a deployment, no matter how curt, he always spent the night on the couch as to not keep Aubrey up with the persistent tossing and turning, even though she hardly slept either, the same restlessness taking hold.

There was no use fighting him. Once he’s done for the night, no amount of pleading changed his mind.

After drinking the rest of her wine, Aubrey stood up. She didn't want to spend the night alone, nor did she want him to spend it alone either.

"Leave it—I'll clean up tomorrow." Aubrey held out her hand. "Come to bed with me. Please."

Jack tongued the inside of his cheek. Her eyes looked like those of a puppy. So big and full of hope. He loved how malleable Aubrey became when she craved intimacy, but it also made him sick with pity to see how much of a cliche she is. A feeble woman starving for the love and affection daddy never fed her as a child. She was so desperate, she'd lick it off the razor-sharp blade of a knife so long as it meant filling her belly with that warm and fuzzy feeling.

How could he say no to that?

Tossing the Styrofoam on the floor next to him, Jack got up. He didn't take the hand she offered, rather breezed right past her.

Aubrey shut off the lights and chained the front door in record time, rushing to crawl into bed before Jack changed his mind.

He was on top of the covers, lying on his side with his back turned to her. A small part of her broke. That was a sign he only planned on staying until she fell asleep. She'd gotten used to sleeping alone, but it didn't make it suck any less when he made the conscious decision to leave her by herself. Waking up in the cold and empty bed in the middle of the night left her wondering why she wasn't enough for him anymore. 

Shedding the sweatpants, Aubrey clicked off the lamp on the nightstand to flood the room in darkness. She laid down beside him and snuggled up close, resting her forehead on the nape of his neck. In her arms, Jack relaxed only when she pressed a small kiss to the top of his spine.

"Try to get some sleep," she whispered. "I'll be here to fight off the nightmares if they come for you."


	4. Chapter 4

There's an element of catharsis in morning sex for Jack.

Not a trace of last night's licentious performance lingered. It was honest and raw.

Divine.

In the blackness he couldn't see Aubrey, but he felt her, and her warmth possessed extraordinary power; burning his towering walls to the ground. Even if it was only temporary.

Her delicate fingers gripping the nape of his neck dissipated the furrow from his brow. His chest rose and fell as though it was natural, rather than the usual tight controlled breaths. Being inside of her is what it meant to be at peace and unguarded. The rare opportunity to soak in the moment, notice the mundane things he didn't realize he'd taken for granted. Like how her nipples were as hard as diamonds, yet they were still soft against him, or how she kissed the same spot on his shoulder every time he came.

Jack held Aubrey close, rolling his hips to hers in a lazy, albeit torrid cadence. Under the sheet, their sweat-slicked limbs tangled together in hopes they'd never have to separate. Desperate for this moment, this intimate connection, to never end. Their lips grazed. Jack seized the chance, crashing his mouth onto hers for a kiss that made the hairs on his arms stand to attention, left his head swimming, and his nerves scorched.

As he hit the spot inside her that erased all common sense, he hissed, her nails clawing into him. The surge of pleasure mixed with the delicious pain had him more alive than ever. His brain short-circuited as if his veins were replaced with live wires and his blood was the conductor.

Her back arched, breaking their lip-lock, but that didn't matter because a moan twisted with the luscious syllables of his name sputtered from her mouth.

Again, Jack plunged his hips.

Again, Aubrey cried.

Grabbing her cheeks, he kissed her. Jack knows her eyes are fluttering closed and that she's feeling the same blistering heat in her belly which he is.

They're so close.

"I love you, Jack."

Hearing her utter those three words never ceased to have the same effect on him—a dagger into the heart. He wanted to say it back to her. Why was it so fucking difficult to spit it out? He loved her more than anything and anyone. At least he thinks so. All Jack could do is hope Aubrey understood how badly he does.

A painful ache sheared his chest, and it hurt like hell. It's been hitting more often than he’dadmit. The sign this is where he needed to be; the present, not the past. Nothing was going to change what happened, or give him back the pieces of himself he'd lost. Aubrey was his sobering reminder that no matter what, life goes on.

It was beautiful watching her stand so tall after falling apart. He wished he could do it, too. She never allowed her candied heart to slip between her fingers, which he fucking _hated_ because he let the gratuitous violence swathing him turn him hard and bitter. Nor did she ever give up on anyone.Jack loathed that because she stayed true even when someone didn't deserve her at all.

Like him.

A shell of a man. But not just any shell. A spent bullet casing—the genuine consequence of something noxious.

Cold, calculated, chaotic evil.

She _loves_ him, although he tastes of blood and war. His hands scarred from state-sanctioned murder yet she trusts them.

That's why he'd kill to protect her.

A woman like Aubrey, one who cares too much about someone as worthless and monstrous as him, needs to be sheltered, treated with special care. Jack wanted to be the man Aubrey deserves, and it gutted him to know he'd never be that for her. He had no idea how—his old man being such a shining example. But goddamn it, he needed to try.

Burying his face into the humid crook of her neck, Jack inhaled, intoxicated by her natural scent.

"Say it again," he barked. "C'mon, baby, say it for me."

He didn't _want_ to hear those words—he _needed_ to.

Aubrey was winded, chest heaving, battling for the next breath as the force of his thrusting became stronger.

"I love you."

His fingers bit into the back of her thigh as he thrusted, overtaken by violent euphoria. Before the sunlight of a new day caresses his skin, Jack snarled as he flooded her with viscous heat. He slowed the rhythm of his hips, milking every ounce of his orgasm.

Keeping his softening cock nestled inside her, Jack collapsed on top of Aubrey. While his head rested on her chest, he closed his eyes to bask in the tender aftermath he seldom allowed himself to savor. Licking his lip, the salty brine of sweat sank into his tongue, and he tried to even his breathing. Her fingers threading through his damp hair was helping him melt more into her. The strident beats of her heart hammering against her ribs echoed in his ears, and it was lulling.

It didn't take long before Jack was drifting, drifting, gone…

His eyes fluttered open. The intense heat and hovering fumes made them sting and water. The back of his throat felt like he'd swallowed rusty nails; the stench of gasoline and fertilizer drifted down the snow-covered street. A piercing ring bounced from eardrum to eardrum, splicing his brain. Every inch of his body hurt, the shock wave from the blast sent him tumbling hard to the ground.

Jack set his M4 beside him and took off his helmet, rolling over and curling into the fetal position.

"I fucking hate this place... cock-sucking-sons-of-bitches," he grumbled.

Reoriented, Jack rose to his knees. He blinked away the stubborn, involuntary tears, as he slapped his helmet back on, and looked around. That's when he saw it; the car—rather, what's left of one—engulfed in bright orange roaring flames.

"Sergeant Napier! Your leg!" Jack twisted to meet Jones' eyes, which were a kin to two piss holes in the snow. "You got hit!"

He watched Jones' mouth move, but he was slow to understand the words coming out of it. Jack shifted his attention to where Jones's finger pointed, finding a thick scrap of charred steel lodged in the meat of his outer-thigh. The dirty camouflage trousers he's been wearing for the last six days straight were soaked with warm blood.

He ripped the shrapnel out.

"Fuck," he hissed, tossing it to the ground.

Glancing to his left, Jack was relieved to see none of the other guys on patrol seemed too injured. But why would they bewhen he took the brunt of the blast?

Jones jumped to his feet, extending his hand to help Jack up.

"Don't be running your mouth about this to Hannah." Taking hold of the hand being offered, Jack hoisted himself up. Grabbing his rifle, Jack slung the strap over his shoulder before digging into the front pocket of his vest for a pack of unharmed cigarettes. "She’ll say something to Aubrey, and that's one conversation I _do not_ want to have."

Jack patted the many pockets for his Zippo; Jones struck his lighter and held out the flame for Jack to light his cigarette.

"Yeah, but think of the cock burn you'll have when you go home and tell her you got a Purple Heart."

Furrowing his brow, Jack gazed back to his bleeding leg. He winced when he prodded the wound with his forefinger. "A Purple Heart for this?"

"Flash that panty-dropping smile of yours, the lonely nurse suturing up that puny thing'll put you in for one."

"He's not wrong, you know." Both Jack and Jones straightened when First Sergeant Danny Baker approached. Baker wiped sweat from his forehead, smearing soot along his damp skin. "They hand those things out like fucking candy nowadays. Did either of you radio this in?"

"Wilson did, sir," answered Jones. The baby-faced Specialist from Mississippi readjusted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. "Kilo-three is the closest unit; they're five minutes out."

Danny pursed his lips and bobbed his head, turning to Jack. "What do you think we should do, Napier?"

Jack's muscles cramped under the sudden weight being dropped on his shoulders. He fixed his helmet, wracking every corner of his brain for the correct answer, afraid of this being a trick question and looking like a moron in front of his commanding officer. Taking a drag of his cigarette, Jack stopped over thinking.

"Backtrack—a couple hundred yards. Just until Kilo can get here, then we advance." The odd butterfly in his gut fluttered its wings, leaving him a bit unnerved as he got a better look at all the derelict buildings surrounding them. "They’re watching us. It wasn’t an accident that fucking thing detonated once we walked near it. Jonesy, you and Wilson establish a base of fire on the rooftop of that building to my left, and watch our fucking backs while we retreat."

Unhooking the strap of his M4, Jones held it to his chest. "Yes, sir." He started walking toward Wilson but stopped short and spun around. "When we get to Kosovo, I better get an invitation to your Purple Heart pinning."

Jack licked his tongue along his windburned lips, shaking his head. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette pinched between dirty fingers to the ground. "We'll see. By the time they think about sending me home, you'll be cozy behind some desk in the States because you're getting too damn old to be out here."

"I'm younger than y—"

Jack saw the spray of bright red blood spurting from Jones' neck before the deep percussive pop in the distance.

A Serb sniper.

Baker, Wilson, Martinez, and Moore dove behind cars lining the street. Jack watched Jones fall to the ground, his hands clawing at the gushing hole.

"Jack!" hollered Baker. "Take cover!"

His feet were glued to the pavement. He couldn't think, breathe, or speak with Jones thrashing around like a fish out of water. Jones' face blanketed in shock—the pain hadn't set in yet—as he extended his hand to Jack. His mouth hung open as if he were trying to talk, and his eyes were wide, clouded with fear.

The ring of gunfire started. He cringed at the echo of glass shattering from the windows being shot out of the buildings around him. It took far too long for his training to kick in; Jack crouched behind the same car as Baker, never taking Jones out of his sight. He wanted to dart out and pull his friend to safety, unable to stomach seeing Jones lying there so helplessly.

"Jonesy!" yelled Jack. He was trying to stand up. "Stay down! I'll be right there to get you once we get support here!" Holding his rifle in one hand, Jack scrambled for the mic of his radio clipped to the vest. "Mayday, mayday, mayday; soldier down! I repeat, soldier down! Echo-five to two-three-two Charlie, we need a medic team!"

Jack's heart leapt from his chest and lodged in his throat as he dropped the M4 to shrug off his pack and dig for the GPS. He pressed the power button, and after what seemed like a century it came to life.

"Echo-five, what's your location?"

Jack answered, "Four-three degrees North; one-eight degrees East, over."

"Roger, roger; two-three-two Charlie en route."

Packing away the GPS, Jack put his pack on again. He gripped his rifle, watching Jones take slugs to the calf and lower back. Blood boiling, stars dancing in his vision. He gritted his teeth, popping out from behind the car.

The trigger pulled more effortlessly than usual. The vibration of each round exploding from the muzzle rattled his bones. The trifling sting in his shoulder from the kick was more rewarding than ever.

"Fuck you, motherfuckers!" roared Jack, shooting in the direction combatant rounds were coming from.

Despite clearing the magazine, Jack kept firing. Fat tears bubbled in his eyes as his brain registered Jones being riddled with bullets like a fucking target hanging from the rafters in a shooting range. Jack tumbled to the ground. It wasn't until his ass hit the frozen pavement did he realize Baker pulled him down by the waistband. Releasing the spent magazine, he popped in a fresh one and racked his rifle.

"Napier!" Baker yelled. "We told Kilo-three to get here with their Humvee to cover. We're gonna bound up so you're not walking out there by yourself to grab him."

As the words left Baker's mouth, bits of glass and hunks of concrete showered them, pelting Jack on top of the helmet. Dropping the M4, Jack scooped up a handful of snow, pressing it to his bloodshot, bloated eyes to wash away the dust. They stung so viciously, Jack wanted to rip them clean out of his skull. It made him stop thinking about the throbbing pain in his thigh, for the time being. He coughed; it was dry, chest-heaving.

"They're shooting RPGs from that direction," bellowed Wilson, pointing.

He reached for his radio again. "Echo-five to Echo-one; we're taking RPGs from the North of the blast sight… relay that we need air support. Two-three-two Charlie, I need a goddamn medic team to our location right fucking now!" Turning to Jones, Jack wanted to scream. He was still alive, though he stopped wriggling after being shot in the back. "Kilo- three, where are you with the Humvee so we can move?!"

A crackled, exasperated voice yelled over, "Echo-five, they've got us by the balls over here. IED's blew our shit half to hell."

Fuck.

Jack responded, "Roger that."

He checked his pockets to see how many magazines he had left. Only two. No way in hell enough to keep up at the rate they were shooting. Jack looked to the sky. Thick gray clouds loomed overhead. Muttering a useless prayer under his breath, he strained his hearing for any sign of screaming jet engines, or the cutting rotor blades of the medevac helicopter.

All he heard was muffled popping of rifles.

They were on their own.

If they didn't save their ammunition, they'd all end up like Jones.

He held up his fist and the shooting behind him ceased.

Jack straightened, un-fastening the belt from around his waist. Then he shrugged off his pack and started emptying the pockets of his vest. Anything to make himself lighter. He needed to move fast.

"What in God's name are you doing?" asked Baker. He had his back resting against the dented door of the car, loading a fresh magazine into his M4.

"I can't just fucking leave him out there now, can I?" Jack snapped the chinstrap of his helmet, tightening it.

"Don’t do it, Jack, I'm serious. Don't be stupid."

Stretching out his right leg, Jack re-laced his scuffed leather boot. "And I promised Hannah he'd come back to her. _Alive_."

"What about Aubrey? You made the same promise to her, too."

Resting one knee on the ground, Jack thrust his fist through the collar of his thick winter jacket and t-shirt, pulling out his dog tags. He broke the lower hanging tag free from the chain and shoved it into Baker's hand. "In my footlocker, there's a letter for her. Anything happens, you make sure she gets it."

"You'll be getting this later." Baker tucked the tag into a pocket of his vest as he shook his head. "If I have to give that to her, I swear to God..."

Jack chuckled, holding out his fist. "Make peace or die. You'll have my back?"

"Of course I've got your back, you fucking prick." Baker collided his gloved knuckles with Jack's bare ones. "Make peace or die, brother. Remember… run zig-zagged."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not a Private anymore, First Sergeant. I know how to run."

"Just making sure." Baker slapped Jack on the side of the helmet. "Get some."

"Hey dickless!" Martinez yelled. He pointed to Jack. "Forrest Gump that shit—knees-to-chest, knees-to-chest. You've got the unit's only deck of cards on you and we wanna play poker later. Can't use 'em if they're all bloody."

Jack rolled his eyes.

At least someone has their priorities straight.

At the bumper of the car, Jack balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. He bounced, ready to make a break for it when there was a pause in enemy gunfire. It was a clear path; he only hoped there wasn't ice hidden beneath the black, slushy snow.

" _Jack! Jack!_ " Hearing Aubrey's voice in the back of his mind, Jack squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He needed to stay focused on staying alive; not thinking about being home. " _Jack! Come on, Jack, wake up!_ "

Springing his eyes open, Jack was half-blinded by the soft glow from the lamp on the nightstand.

Aubrey straddled his hips, one hand resting on his chest while the other patted his cheek. Jack grabbed her wrist, sitting up.

How the hell did she end up on top of him?

Jack's breath got stuck in his throat when he realized where he is. In bed with Aubrey in Kansas. Far, far away from strife-torn Sarajevo.

Jerkingfree from her hold, Aubrey wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the heel of her hand. "Are you okay?"

Jack slumped against the headboard.

Has she always been this fucking stupid?

Seeing how Aubrey stared at him, Jack's body temperature sky-rocketed. His tongue darted out, moistening his sandpaper lips. Without realizing what he was doing, Jack touched the patch of puffy scar tissue on the outside of his thigh. It sizzled under his touch. A bevy of rabid bats flailed their wings in his stomach, bouncing between ribs and spine.

The tingling numbness in his hands was the first warning of the posthaste storm approaching.

Jack shoved Aubrey off of him, bolting from bed. Before the worst of it hit, he needed to get out of there, away from her. Aubrey seeing him like this—fragile and inadequate—would only make him drown faster in the wave.

Blood pounding in his ears, the thundering roar grew louder. Trying to put on boxers was almost impossible with how bad the trembling in his hand became. As he glanced around the room, it was like looking through a fisheye lens, then a kaleidoscope, his vision getting more distorted by the second. Dizziness set in at the same time as the loathsome cottonmouth, and Jack couldn't breathe no matter how hard he gasped for air.

Once the elastic band of the boxers snapped to his hips, his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, half-supporting his weight at the foot of the bed.

"It was just a dream," he muttered. The grip he held on the sheet turned his knuckles bright white. "It was just a dream…"

It wasn't, though.

The heavy grief he wore like a second skin was real. As was the scar he carried around with him, a constant reminder. No matter how hard Jack tried to convince himself none of it happened, nothing stopped the flashes of _his_ pale blue, blood-crusted, bullet riddled body.

As soon as the first tear broke free, the rest followed in an unstoppable stream. He tightened his hold on the quilt, straddling the fine line between losing grip on his dignity and pulling himself together enough to get away from Aubrey.

Jack's palms were so sweaty and achy, he couldn't hold on to the thin shred of self-respect anymore.

Tears flooded his face, cutting his cheeks like scorching scalpels, while his chest heaved trying to suck air through his strangled throat.

He looked at Aubrey, abhorring how she curled into a ball against the headboard, gnawing on her thumbnail. She gazed back at him, shell-shocked. Ill-equipped to handle the physical manifestations of the post-traumatic stress Jack spent too much of his time trying to convince himself and everyone else he wasn't suffering from. More anger bubbled in his belly. The last thing Aubrey needed to deal with were the demons he allowed to eat him alive, when she was dealing with her own.

Shame swallowed him whole.

"Oh God, Jonesy," he cried. "I'm so sorry!"

His words reverberated off the walls, shaking Aubrey's core.

Jack dipped his head, his mouth agape with strands of saliva connecting his upper and lower lips.

Using the side of her fist, Aubrey wiped away tears and fought her memories of the funeral which Jack had missed. She unfolded from the safety of the ball she tucked herself into, crawling to the foot of the bed to hop off.

There was nothing Aubrey could do—no magic words to mutter that would rip the pain out of his chest now and forever.

She reached out, curling her hand around his bicep, but he smacked it away.

"Don't you fucking touch me!" he roared. 

His voice was guttural. Demonic.

A shiver shot down Aubrey's spine, chilling her to the bone. Him speaking like that was enough to make her almost recoil. This wasn't the time to cower. If she did, then she knew it was game over. Aubrey was ready for what had to be done.

Ignoring the jitters, Aubrey swallowed every ounce of trepidation he instilled.

She only had one shot at this. There was no wiggle room for error.

With reflexes faster than a cat's, Aubrey grabbed the nape of his neck, sinking her nails into his skin, at the same time taking hold of his wrist. She caught him off guard, shoving him down onto his belly, pressing the side of his face into the carpet. As she held him there, she straddled his waist and twisted his arm behind him.

Jack wailed from having his shoulder joint maneuvered in such a way he was sure she was going to pop it from the socket. Jack reached around, blindly feeling for any part of her, as he thrashed to get her full weight off of him.

He felt her ribcage. Balling his hand into a fist, Jack made a sad excuse of a swing and missed hitting her breast instead.

He swung again. This time missing her. Latching onto her thigh, he dug his thumb into a fresh bruise. It was enough to make her cry out in pain, but nothing close to jarring her.

"Get the fuck off of me! Aubrey! Get off!"

The longer it took Jack to fight her off, the angrier he got because his body was failing him. There was only one reason she was overpowering him: the anxiety wrecked him, mentally, emotionally, and physically. 

"If you don't get off of me," he warned. "I _promise_ it won't end well for you."

Not in the mood to hear his _threats_ , she slid her hand into his hair, gripped the roots in a tight fist, then shoved his face further into the carpet.

Having him in this position, Aubrey knew she was playing with fire. Being trapped made the panic attack worse, but in retrospect it was a preemptive move. If she could hold power long enough for his return to baseline, there was no need to worry about his mood turning on her.

"What happened to Jonesy," she panted. "It wasn't your fault."

She tightened her grip, refusing to relent no matter how much he twisted.

Those words released the pin in the grenade Jack was trying to stop from detonating. He went limp, giving up the fight.

Jack's chest heaved, threatening to implode. Realizing how he was struggling to breathe, Aubrey rolled off of him. She helped Jack sit up and settled him between her legs with his back flush to her chest. She leaned against the bed for support. 

Lacing her fingers with his, she took a steady, deep breath. "Breathe with me, Jack."

Aubrey sniffled, her heart breaking at the stifling sound as he tried the best he could to make his chest rise and fall in the same way he felt Aubrey's. Jack squeezed her hands so tight, it was a miracle he didn't break them.

"I didn't want to leave him there! I didn't!"

Jack threw his head back against her shoulder and screamed. It was a piercing mewl of a wholly broken man, one that ripped the soul right out of her. Aubrey kissed his temple. She hoped him feeling the familiar warmth of her body seeping into his would tear his mind out of Sarajevo. To some extent, it worked. Over and over Jack muttered out loud, reminding himself where he was, whose arms he was wrapped in.

For as long as he's right here, there's nothing that can hurt him. Aubrey'd let nothing bad happen.

"I know you didn't want to. Do you remember what I said? They left you there with no support."

"It is my fault, Aubrey!" The sudden rise in his voice startled her.

"What else were you supposed to do? If you and Danny hadn't decided what you two did, the outcome would have been far worse. Six caskets, not just one, would have gone back."

That hit him a lot harder than he expected. It was true the choice he and Baker made that afternoon allowed Jack to make it home alive. He wished Aubrey understood that even though only one casket flew to the States, that didn't change the fact all six of them died in the ambush.

After a couple of painfully silent minutes, Jack broke free from her hold and jumped to his feet as if nothing happened. He wiped the lingering tears from his flush, blotchy cheeks. Aubrey fought the urge to say something. The futile effort was bound to go unappreciated because there's no doubting he's too embarrassed to talk.

He's never spoken about it. Why would he suddenly start now?

Jack asked, "Did you cum earlier?"

Aubrey wanted to scream and rip her hair out. Her orgasm—or lack-there-of—was the furthest thing from her mind. It boggled her brain how that was the first thought he came up with after a near breakdown. But, if history with Jack taught her anything, it's that most things he did never made sense. His life was a series of arbitrary distractions to keep himself busy and unfocused on uncomfortable realities.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I didn't."

From the nightstand, Jack grabbed his dog tags and put them on before draping a clean towel he found in the laundry basket over his shoulder.

"Not my, uh, _best_ work. I promise I'll get ya when I come home on Sunday, cupcake." Jack leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna jump in the shower so why don't you make me something to eat. We gotta hit the road soon. Formation's at five-thirty for a march, and my squad is probably already out there in full gear—" he lowered his voice as he dug through the dresser for a clean pair of boxer-briefs, more so talking to himself— "because we all know how fucking stupid Privates are. They hear four-forty-five, and they think that means show up at a quarter to four."

Aubrey had whiplash trying to keep up with him.

Pursing her lips, she looked over to the clock. It was three-thirty, and neither of them managed a wink of sleep. She couldn't fathom how Jack would survive a grueling morning of P.T., then make it through the demanding sixty hours of field training. She was exhausted from being curled up with Jack all night watching rerun after rerun of NYPD Blue.

As Jack shuffled out of the bedroom, still mumbling to himself, Aubrey hugged her knees to her chest. She rested her forehead to the boney caps and squeezed her eyes shut. Sucking in a breath through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, she tried to force the memories of the half-hour into the black hole she liked to keep most of her emotions.

The infamous afternoon in Sarajevo had been the closest Aubrey got to living out her worst nightmare—standing on the tarmac at an airport in a foreign city, watching the flag-draped casket be unloaded from a plane.

For Jack, _not_ dying was the worst thing to happen.

Neither of them wanted to think of it ever again, yet it was impossible to forget.

Hearing the shower turn on, Aubrey stood up. She used the elastic band around her wrist to tie her hair into a tight, messy bun as she sauntered down the hall. The bathroom door squeaked when opened all the way, so Aubrey knew that would give her presence away, but when she stepped into the steam-filled room, Jack didn't poke his head out from the violet curtain like he normally did.

She just wanted to make sure he was halfway to being okay. The thought of him being away from home for almost three days after an anxiety attack made Aubrey feel sick. She wouldn't be there to give him his meds, rub his back, or remind him that everything was going to be okay, God forbid being in the field reminded him of being in combat.

Without his protest to stop her, Aubrey pushed the curtain back just enough to step into the tub behind him. His forearms were resting against the white tile and his chin dipped into his chest as the scalding water beat down onto the nape of his neck. This was one of the few ways he became grounded, drag himself back into the present and not linger too long in the past.

With his eyes and brain shut off to the outside world, Jack jumped out of his skin when hands gripped his sides and a pair of lips pressed to his shoulder blade.

"Goddamn it!" Tilting his head, Jack let the water pelt him in the face before wiping the beads away. "I told you to make me something to eat. What part of _I have to be in formation by five_ did you not understand?"

Aubrey dragged the tip of her tongue along the curve of his neck, nipping his earlobe. "I thought you said formation isn't until five-thirty."

"Doesn't matter if it's five or five-thirty. You know how fucking squad leaders are… it's such bullshit, Aubs."

The thick strain coating his voice was almost too much for Aubrey to handle. Her chest ached, like someone drove their hand straight through her sternum and grabbed her heart, squeezing the utter life out of it.

Slithering her arms around his sides, she hugged him as tightly as she could. She pressed more kisses to his shoulder, tasting the persistent sweat that refused to wash away.

"Try to look on the bright side. In a few months, this'll all be over. No more formation, no more staff duty… no more deployments."

Jack reached for the bar of Old Spice soap. Even with Aubrey clinging to him, he lathered up.

"That's not the point. It's—it's the _principle_ of it."

Jack relinquished the soap to Aubrey. She rolled it between her hands and set it on the dish once she had a good lather going. With a firm, yet relaxing pressure, she kneaded. The muscle in his back was so kinked, it was impossible to tell where the bony column of his spine ended and where the muscle began.

"I know it is," she said, sighing.

Aubrey smirked when a moan gurgled in Jack's throat. Her fingers never ceased to do the trick.

He spun around to face Aubrey, reaching behind him to change the pressure setting on the shower-head. It beat against him with such force, Aubrey was sure it would shoot straight through him at any moment.

"I fucking hate this base," he snarled. "My commanders at Fort Carson didn't even take the squad leader’s position from me after I got arrested. All fucking _politics_ here. You know what it is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aubrey shook her head, curling her arms around her neck, bringing the front of her body flush to his. She ran a silken leg along his soap-slicked one. It didn't matter his mind focused on other things; she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling when his erection poked her hip.

So much for all the shit he threw at her last night about how she's not _aging gracefully_.

"I don't, tell me."

"All the officers… they're intimidated by me." Reaching behind Aubrey, Jack went for the body wash he loved smelling on her. He squirted more soap than he needed into his palm, sloppily rubbing them together. Most of the soap slipped down the drain, though when he got bubbles, Jack nudged Aubrey back so he could return the favor. Instead of working the knots from her neck, shoulders, or back, he made sure her breasts and ass cheeks were sparkling clean. "For Bravo Company, so many of the lieutenants and captains are my age, give or take a couple years, right? Well, something, uh, occurred to me—I've seen more action than all those West Point assholes. I know my shit. If they give me control of the squad, they know I'll have those Privates whipped into shape in a month and I'll make them look like sand-baggers."

Pushing Jack out of the way to rinse the suds off, Aubrey was inclined to agree. It wasn't the dumbest explanation he's had.

"You finished all the requirements of your Article 15 and the mandatory leadership courses, so have you heard anything on when you'll be promoted?"

"Nope. Not a fucking word." Jack moved Aubrey out of the way so he could wash his hair. "With my last tour in Bosnia, and then that short one I did in Serbia, I have all the points I need; my commanders just have to submit my recommendation to the board."

"And if they don't?"

Jack closed his eyes as he rinsed the shampoo. "If I don't hear anything by the end of next month, I'll put in a request for a PCS."

"And move _again_?" she whined. "Jack, we've barely been here for a year. I don't wanna pack up and move again when your separation date is so close."

"Too bad, cupcake. I don't want to leave without making Staff Sergeant, so if that means transferring to another base to make that happen, that's what I'm gonna do." He grabbed the canister of shaving gel off the ledge. "I'm not going to tell you again, go make me something to eat, because I still have to shave."

Aubrey didn't say anything. She nodded and stepped out. Not bothering to towel off, she just wrapped herself up in her terrycloth robe, which hung on the back of the door and tied the belt around her waist. Deciding there was one more important matter she needed to attend to before fixing breakfast, Aubrey opened the medicine cabinet and sorted his pills. Opening the shower curtain, Jack was using the small mirror suctioned to the tile wall as he worked the shave gel into a thin layer of foam over his face.

"Give me your hand."

Jack stopped what he was doing, looking at Aubrey like she sprouted a second head. He was confused who told her it was okay for _her_ to be ordering _him_ around.

"I'm sorry—who exactly do you think you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to you," she asserted. Aubrey locked eyes with him as she held out her fist. "I'm not gonna tell you again; give me your hand. I gave you an extra Ativan, so hopefully that helps keep your anxiety low for the day. You should be okay for the weekend because you'll be too busy to think about anything other than training."

Jack never thought it was possible to become overwhelmed with so many emotions in such a short time frame. He wanted to knock those pills out of her hand, then he wanted to knock her out for thinking he needed them in the first place, and for throwing his words back in his face.

Holding out his clean hand, the only thing keeping him from wringing her little fucking neck was reminding himself of how awful he had felt for days after the last time he hurt her.Aubrey opened her hand, and four pills fell into his palm. He closed his fingers around them, and they burned holes into his flesh.Stepping up on her tip toes, she kissed his forehead.As she moseyed out of the bathroom, Jack jerked the shower curtain shut. He opened his hand, staring down at the pills.

_…hopefully that helps keep your anxiety low._

Without a second thought, Jack dropped the pills down the drain. 

Fuck Aubrey for giving them to him. 

And fuck the idiotic shrink who said he needed them in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely blown away with the response I've received on this story. Thank you so much for the comments--I really do love and appreciate every single one. Kudos, too! They're definitely the motivation I use to write, especially when it's the last thing I have energy for after a long work-day. 
> 
> This chapter ended up being quite long, so I decided to separate it into three parts. I should (fingers crossed) have the next one posted within a couple of days. It just needs some tweaking and editing. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Aubrey changed into a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting sweater.

She grabbed Jack's duffle bag off the floor by the dresser and plopped it onto the bed before unzipping. After triple checking to make sure she packed the essentials, she brought it into the family room, tossing it next to his shined boots, molle backpack, helmet, and vest.

Swiping the remote off the coffee table, Aubrey turned on the news to catch the weather. As soon as the story changed to the conflict in the Middle East, she shut it off. Her mind couldn't take anymore madness for the day, and it wasn't even five in the morning.

With cold temperatures and frost expected overnight, she retrieved his heavy winter jacket. He made it no secret how much he despised wearing it because it restricted his movements too much. But him coming home sick would only make them both miserable.

Satisfied everything's accounted for—he'd sign out his M4, Beretta, and magazines of training ammunition from the armory—Aubrey headed into the kitchen to make Jack's customary pre-deployment breakfast.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Not just _any_ peanut butter and jelly. He rabidly insisted on eating that too sweet all-in-one concoction, where the peanut butter and jelly are mixed in the same jar.

Aubrey learned the hard way not to deviate from what's wonted. When Jack left for a three-month patrol of the Kosovo-Serbia border, she had made him a sandwich with crunchy peanut butter and raspberry jam. After he got home, Jack did nothing but bitch for three days, blaming everything that had gone wrong on Aubrey and _that stupid fucking sandwich_. She tried explaining to him that his precious Goober didn't exist in the former Yugoslavia, but Jack, a monster of habit, didn't care to hear her excuses.

From then on, she had her brother ship it from the States. It ended up costing a small fortune, but it stopped the fights. That's all Aubrey cared about, anyway. So long as he's not bitching at her, she's happy.

As she finished smearing the last globs of Goober onto _both_ slices of bread, Jack emerged from the bedroom. He was tucking the olive green t-shirt into the waistband of the dark camouflage trousers when he gazed up at Aubrey. Under the bright lights in the kitchen, she got a good glimpse of him for the first time in days.

He looked awful. Red-rimmed, sunken eyes. Dark circles so vibrant against too pale skin, it's like he's walking around with shiners. He seemed thinner, too, despite Aubrey not being able to remember a change in his eating habits.

She smiled weakly, handing Jack the plate.

Not bothering to sit down at the table, he wolfed it down in the middle of the kitchen like its been weeks since the last time she fed him.

"Do you have plans this weekend?" he asked in-between bites.

"Not really." Aubrey poured him a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge. She handed it to him, and Jack chugged half of it. "Cleaning. Catching up on laundry, grocery shopping. Charlotte talked me into tutoring for a couple hours, so yeah… fun stuff."

Jack polished off the rest of the water, tossing the glass into the sink. Aubrey shuddered when it sounded like it shattered. She couldn't muster the strength yet to see if there had been _another_ casualty. He'd broken so many glass cups over the years, Aubrey accepted responsibility, being too stubborn to make the switch to plastic flat and drink ware.

"If _they_ invite you to go out, I don't want you going." He stuffed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. "I don't want you glued to the news either."

He shoved the plate into her hands. She rolled her eyes, but thankfully Jack was preoccupied with washing his hands to notice. Aubrey put the plate in the dishwasher.

"I can't go out, and I can't watch television. What… am I grounded or something?"

Shutting off the water, Jack didn't look at Aubrey as he dried off his hands with the towel on the counter. Jack cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. He's stuck between a rock and a hard place. If frustrations got the better of him and he blew up, she'd question if he really took the two Ativan. Then her brazen remarks were testing his patience.

"Don't twist what I said, cupcake." Heading into the family room, Jack grabbed his boots and flopped down onto the couch. "You know _exactly_ what I mean."

Aubrey plopped beside him, curling her arms around his shoulders. Jack pushed her off of him and bent at the waist. He didn't need her hanging off of him while he was lacing his boots. She tucked her legs underneath her, but still stayed close.

"What if it's just dinner; no bars. Can I go then?" she whined. "Please, Jack! Pretty please with a cherry on top!"

"Don't beg. You're not five-years-old. And the answer is still no." 

Keeping Aubrey confined within the walls of the apartment was never a _good_ feeling. Letting her go out, interact and have fun with the other Army wives was something Jack wished he was a keen on, but he thought they were terrible influences, eager to poison his sweet, too naive girl with twisted morals, making her think it was okay to seek the comfort of zealous civilian men who possessed zero qualms about keeping the bed warm while their husbands were gone.

Jack never considered himself to be the jealous type. He trusted Aubrey; she never gave him reason not to. Still, her unadulterated faithfulness wasn't enough to stop the dormant insecurity which reared its ugly head at the worst times. Aubrey's eye didn't stray from him, but he always saw how _their_ eyes wandered to her.

Jack didn't appreciate other men thinking they could swoop in and play with his toy while his back was turned.

"Oh, come on. I'm dying to go out."

He snorted. "I just took you out last month. How quickly we forget, hmm? So _ungrateful_."

"That was the Army Ball! Totally different; we had to go." Jack stopped blousing his trousers and gazed at Aubrey. His eyebrows cocked, and his eyes were dark, unamused. It made her heart flutter. She changed her tone. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll rent some movies from Blockbuster. Plus, I've got reading to catch up on."

Turning his attention back to blousing his trousers, tension pulled his muscles taut again, the disappointment radiating off of Aubrey not helping the nerves which were already rubbed raw. He glanced sideways at her, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth almost shattered to dust.

Why did she always have to do this? Turn so docile with eyes glassy and full of dejection.

For a split second, Jack wanted to yell at her for _not_ putting up a fight.

Picking at an imaginary hangnail on her thumb, Aubrey sucked in a sharp breath. The calamity dissipated, morphing into something hotter, boiling. Her heart pounded in her ears. For the first time in months, her hands trembled from something other than fear.

It wasn't fair. He was going out to have his fun for the weekend. And after what happened earlier, she deserves at least one night of wearing a dress which fit a little too snug, pumps pinching her feet a little too much, and drink enough vodka to help forget the nightmare her life was slipping into.

Aubrey couldn't bite her tongue any longer.

"It's just," she breathed. "I bought a new dress."

Maybe she wasn't a lost cause after all.

Jack's attention piqued, but he refused to give any of it to her.

_Come out and play, cupcake_. _Show Daddy you haven't turned vapid; haven't lost your thirst for a fight. Run that mouth—say something you fucking know is gonna tick me off._

His mouth filled with sawdust as the spiking anticipation made him go a little lightheaded. Jack didn't have to look over to Aubrey to confirm his suspicions. He already knew she was glaring at him, pouting like a fucking child because the word _no_ wasn't something she was used to hearing. Jack was man enough to admit all the blame for that couldn't be dropped on her father's shoulders alone. He was just as guilty, indulging her every wish and command. It was almost impossible to tell her no. And the more she fought—the angrier she made him—the more inclined Jack was to give her what she wanted. If she's willing to square up with him, go toe-to-toe, and survived, Jack didn't think twice about handing her the world on a silver platter.

"It's dark purple… kinda short. Hugs all the curves you love. I was really hoping I'd be able to wear it for _you_ , but if you're gonna make me sit at home on a Friday night like some pathetic little virgin, I guess you're giving me no choice than to go behind your back and—"

The words became stuck in Aubrey's throat when Jack lurched,wrapping both hands around her neck. He pushed her onto her back, head colliding with the armrest of the couch. Straddling her, he planted one foot on the ground, and the other knee tucked between her and the cushion. His fingers bit into the soft arteries.

Aubrey curled her hands around his flexing biceps. The mild pressure wasn't enough to scare her. She knew the difference. Aubrey still had to tread carefully, now more than ever. In dangling the threat of garnering the attention of another man in front of Jack, there was a fine line between keeping him in the foreplay of it all, and pushing him too hard so he'd lose grip on his control.

"I'm not paying you enough _attention_ … is that what you're telling me?"

Aubrey hooked a leg around his waist. She let go of his right bicep, sliding her hand up his chest and neck, shoving her middle and ring fingers into his mouth. He clamped down, hard enough to make her wince but not enough to break the skin.

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I know you're busy," she said. Aubrey's tone was so clear and sweet, it shot straight through Jack's groin. "I can't expect you to always be around to give me what I need."

Jack pressed his fingers into her neck a little harder, still in control. The added pressure made Aubrey tighten her leg curled around his waist, her heel digging into his lower back. The wild glint in her eye, the one begging him to fuck her senseless, was the reassurance to keep him grounded. He pushed her fingers out of his mouth with his tongue, a glob of saliva soaking into the emerald fibers of her sweater.

"And what is it you _need_?"

Aubrey lowered her hand, cupping his crotch. She squeezed his erection. "A man who knows how to please his woman. Not one who cums too _quick_ and leaves me to take care of myself."

This fucking bitch.

She's baiting him, and it almost worked until he looked at the crystal clock on the side table. Jack eased up on the pressure, letting more blood flow to her brain.

"We don't have time, Aubs."

"Of course we have time." She un-fastened the first button of his trousers. "All you need is two minutes. Two and a half, tops." 

Jutting off of Aubrey, Jack couldn't tear her jeans and panties off fast enough.

He threw them to the floor, then stood up to un-fasten his trousers and push them and his briefs down to his knees before sitting back on the couch. Aubrey didn't hesitate to climb onto his lap, sinking down on his cock. The warmth of her wrapped around him never ceased to leave him unfazed. Jack threw his head against the back of the couch and bit his lip. The warm, shocking, fuzziness, like television static, exploded through every inch of him. When Aubrey rocked, Jack snapped back, grabbing her hips to hold her still.

He set the pace; not her.

It was rough and wonton. Her squeals and the way she squirmed against him, Jack knew it bordered on being unpleasant, painful. The slickness coating her walls was quickly turning dry, making the friction a little too much even for him to handle.

Jack licked his fingers, slipping them between her legs to rub circles on her clit. He relented on the frantic thrusts, stopping altogether.

Aubrey bit her lip to suppress her cries as she moved her hips back and forth, fucking herself on his fingers and stationary cock.

She was getting wet again.

"C'mon, don't be so quiet for me now, sweetheart," he panted. 

Aubrey refusing to make the slightest bit of noise was irritating. With her eyes closed, he knew just how he'd take it from her. Still working her clit, he sucked the forefinger on his other hand into his mouth, coating it thickly in saliva. He moved stealthily and fast, slipping it into the puckered hole she _loved_ him playing with.

Her eyes sprang open, as did her mouth. The burning sting of being forcefully stretched open made Aubrey stop moving. She gripped Jack's shoulder, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes as she wriggled to accommodate the prodding digit.

"Oh, God—fuuck!" she cried.

Jack eased his finger in and out, feeling her flutter around him from all angles. She started moving her hips again, the sensation of being so full twisted into something far more delicious as the pain tapered away.

"You're a fucking cunt. You know that, Aubrey?" He pressed his fingers firmly against her clit, relishing in the way her face scrunched with the focus on chasing her orgasm. It was difficult to tell whether she heard him. "Making Daddy work this hard to get you off when you don't fucking deserve it."

She cried out again; music to his ears.

"Why won't you just cum already? Am I not good enough for you, hmm?"

Aubrey was fighting her orgasm. He saw how she was holding on for dear life, not ready to let go and come tumbling face-first back into the real world. A world where nothing felt this euphoric.

"You—you—"

She couldn't form a coherent sentence, every word spilling from her mouth was utter gibberish.

The fire in Jack's forearm went ignored, he was too focused on Aubrey to even notice. He loved how she squirmed against him and he was the one making her feel this good.

"Aubrey," he warned. The way she somehow found rhythm on his cock, Jack's control was slipping from his fingers. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on for, and he wouldn't finish until she did. "Don't make me wait any longer."

The sternness in his voice, the firm pressure to her clit, it was too much to handle. Aubrey fell against Jack, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Her nails dug into his chest as the wave swallowed her whole. There was no stopping the quake in her knees, and she shrilly whine.

Aubrey was desperate to get away from Jack's fingers still working her, the overstimulation making her crawl out of her skin. His rough, painful thrusting at the start wasn't punishment for what she'd said—this was. She asked for this. Her nails bit more into Jack's chest. If she reached down and grabbed his wrist, there'd only be hell to pay.

"Jack, please," she cried.

"Don't say you want me to stop _now,_ cupcake." The corners of his vision went sticky and blurry, and the muscles in his abdomen became achingly tight.

Tears sputtered from her eyes, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep the sob contained.

"Are you gonna go out while I'm gone?"

Her head still buried in his neck, she shook it. She long since stopped moving her hips.

Granting mercy, Jack stopped rubbing her clit. With both hands, he grabbed her hips, guiding into a pace to get him off. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Sniffling, Aubrey lifted her head up. Her cheeks were bright red, tear-stained, and blotchy. A sight for sore eyes.

Their proximity meant his pubic bone still brushed her clit. Each pass made Aubrey tremble more and more.

"Ifyou don't listen to me and still go out, I'm going to be _very_ disappointed. Do you want to disappoint me?"

She shook her head.

Good enough.

"But after what you said, I'm not sure if I can trust you," he panted. Jack moved her hips faster. He was so close, he tasted the sweet release. "Can I trust you?"

She nodded.

"Use your _words_ , Aubrey. Let me hear you _say_ it."

"You can trust me. I promise you can! I won't disappoint you!"

"No—" now he could finish with peace of mind— "no, you won't."

* * *

Jack sank into the flimsy plastic chair, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. It was a struggle not to close his eyes and doze off, especially after an eight mile march in full gear.

The impromptu fuck Aubrey threw at him before leaving the house didn't help with his fatigue either.

Any other day he would be annoyed with orders to sit through a briefing when there were a thousand other productive things he should be doing. These briefs were bullshit; a waste of time, and an insult to his intelligence. There was no point in going over the plan of attack for field training. They have thrown him into the belly of the beast enough times to understand these _plans_ never go the way they're supposed to.

All he needs is his M4, bayonet, map, compass, and gut instinct. Not some sophisticated outline drawn up by desk jockeys who have never puckered from the sourness of combat.

He didn't plan on paying attention, regardless. Shutting out the noise is the only way he can get into the right headspace. Not having a plan is the best plan to have. That way, there's room for deviation and snap judgement, which was how Jack stayed two steps ahead of most.

Jack's mind wandered home, thinking about Aubrey. He pictured her in nothing but a t-shirt that's two-sizes too big, knee-high socks, and a pair of panties where the underside of her ass cheeks pokes out. She's probably listening to Queen or some Russian popstar he's never heard of, moping the kitchen floor with pine-scented disinfectant.

A tap on the shoulder from behind tore his thoughts from what he missed.

Jack twisted his neck to see who interrupted his visions of the half-naked Aubrey.

Robbie Davidson; another Bravo Company sergeant. There were few people at Fort Riley he could stand, and Davidson was one of them. A stand-up guy who never indulged bullshit and pushed his men just as hard as Jack pushed his.

It also helped they both struggled with the same demons. A silent understanding; a mutual respect.

"What do you think—we getting deployed for not?"

Jack tasted the blistering sun, and chalky dirt coating his tongue. "Abso-fucking-lutely we are. I give it six weeks before they make the official announcement."

"Eight before we're shipping out to Arizona or Cali for desert training. Watch them try to spin this as some garbage peacekeeping operation."

"Fuck that." Jack dropped his voice an octave. "I did my time _peacekeeping_. I want my goddamn combat patch."

"They still haven't designated Bosnia as a combat zone? Even after what went down?"

"Nope. Some bullshit with the United Nations being invol—"

"Ten-hut!"

The low, echoing voice rattling the briefing room brought all conversations to an abrupt end. Everyone stood straight. Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. Jack fixated on a spot on the wall, his expression blank. It was muscle memory; his fists clenched and thumbs parallel with the seam of his trousers.

Major Bradly strolled in, a manilla folder clutched in hand and his minions hot on his heels. Jack was already bored and they haven't even started with the mind-numbing slideshow of maneuvers the NCOs would be expected to teach the lower-listed over the weekend. There was only one lesson Jack thought they needed to know. The same piece of wisdom his lieutenant gifted him with as they departed Hungary for Bosnia.

_It's only a war crime if you get caught._

"Good morning, gentleman."

"Good morning, sir," they replied.

Standing behind the podium, Major Bradly opened his folder as he put his glasses on. He told them all to sit down, and Jack couldn't drop fast enough.

Resting his hands on his knees, Jack felt a crusty spot under his middle finger. His heart pounded as the pressure in his face grew tenfold. Did she not wash these trousers like he asked almost a dozen times? If they spotted him with a dirty uniform, Jack would make her hand-wash every fucking set he owned for the next six years.

Taking in a soothing breath, Jack moved his hands to see the offending stain. His eyes doubled. It was white and flaky. 

Oops.

Jack took a quick glance around to make sure no one was paying him attention. They were all focused on the map Major Bradly was busy explaining. Clearing his throat, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Keeping it low and hidden from sight, Jack flipped it open. Mostly, he typed his text out blindly, hoping the misspellings weren't too horrible and she'd get the gist of what he was saying.

_10:45_

_U dripped cum on my pants._

_10:49_

_Ur the one who put their fingers into me after u came._

_11:05_

_I shld make u come here and lick them clean._

_11:07_

_Pants or fingers?_

Jack licked his lips and glanced around again. Thankfully everyone, even the lieutenants and captains, were on the verge of falling asleep by now. He looked down at Aubrey's text once more. The crotch of his trousers grew snugger than it had been a half-hour ago.

She knew what he was damn well talking about. She just wanted for him to say it.

_11:20_

_Pants. Duh. U already sucked my fingers clean like the good bitch u r._

_11:32_

_Ugh. Fine. I'll lick your pants if u promise to rail me from behind when u get home._

Carefully closing his phone, Jack slipped it back into his pocket. He leaned forward, rubbing his sore eyes. The visions were limitless, but there was one thing in particular he had in mind for his welcome home present. Too bad it was going to be a surprise for her.

Having missed every single word Major Bradly said, Jack tried to focus for the last ten minutes. But that was impossible to do when his phone was blowing up in his pocket.

_"_ Don't worry." Davidson's quiet remark startled Jack. "I'll catch you up to speed when we grab some chow."

A wave of panic shot through Jack. If Davidson noticed he spent the entire briefing on his phone, undoubtedly others did, too.

The insatiable minx was always getting him into trouble.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, Jack opened the newest message Aubrey sent him. It was a photo. A topless photo. He couldn't drag his attention away from it. Her breasts weren't as perky as they'd been ten years ago, but holy hell did they still look fantastic. Jack wanted to swirl his tongue around those rosebud nipples, clamp them between his teeth until she wriggled and whined beneath him. Pinch and roll them between calloused fingers.

"Damn, Napier. She's a dime," whispered Sergeant Burgess, who sat beside him.

"Eyes forward," warned Jack.

He deleted the photo and put his phone away. He didn't need to be giving any of the guys around him material to jerk off to. It bothered Jack enough that most of them saw Aubrey earlier in the summer oiled up and in nothing more than a skimpy bikini at the swimming pool on base.

Once the briefing ended, Jack stood in the hallway outside of the room with his back pressed to the wall. He usually wasted no time in dipping, going back to the work he was expected to get done. But he was feeling rather _generous_ , and decided he'd hang out and wait for Davidson, offer to buy him a burger at the chow hall for looking out for him earlier.

A sly smirk was plastered to Davidson's face as he came strolling out into the hallway and saw Jack.

"Let me guess," said Jack. "You saw the messages, too."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I was too focused on Major Bradly's riveting discussion on flanking maneuvers to see the wife asking to be _railed_ from behind."

Jack was far from shy with sex, especially when a majority of the conversations which took place revolved around exactly that. None of it changed the fact he was still a private person at his core, and he was more worried about keeping Aubrey's dignity intact. He didn't want her to have _that_ sort of reputation with the men in his company.

Brushing it off, Jack kept it as professional as possible.

"I don't have to report back until fourteen-hundred hours, so I'm headed over to the chow hall. You want to grab a bite? It's on me. And you can catch me up on what I… _missed_."

"Yeah, totally. If you don't mind though, I've got to make a quick stop first and check in on my squad. They're supposed to be cleaning their rifles, but you know Privates somehow fuck that up."

Jack scratched the back of his neck as they started walking down the hall. "A couple of days ago during target training, I had a Private tell me his rifle wasn't firing. I took the magazine out, and it was empty. Fucker was so tired, he didn't realize he emptied the mag. I put him on sta—"

"Sergeant Napier."

Hearing his name being called, Jack stopped mid-stride and spun around. Davidson, too. They recognized the voice belonging to Lieutenant Elliot, so when they stood at attention, they brought their right hands up in a salute. Of course, when he saluted back, he never told them to ease, forcing them to hold the tensed, uncomfortable position.

The asshole who couldn't have been over twenty-two-years-old, had some sort of Napoleon-complex; he always had to throw his rank around when around men who were bigger than him.

"Is everything alright, Sergeant?" he asked.

Jack fought the urge to furrow his brow. "Excuse my ignorance, sir, but I'm not sure I know what you're speaking of."

"You were on your phone the whole time Major Bradly was speaking. I'm guessing you wouldn't have done that unless there was an emergency."

Busted.

Jack swallowed hard, and Davidson cleared his throat to hide the laughter which threatened to escape. He wished he found it as funny as Davidson did, but all Jack envisioned was endless hours of scrubbing floors and toilets, or ending up on staff duty Friday or Saturday nights for however much longer he's stuck at this shithole place. They all hated him here, just itching and looking for any minuscule infraction to slap him with. Being on his phone during a brief was their fucking golden ticket.

_Goddamn it, Aubrey._

Heavy dread pooled in Jack's chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Everything is fine, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Elliot sucked his teeth and bounced his gaze back and forth between Jack and Davidson. A shit-eating grin stretched across his goblin face as he bobbed his head.

"Major Bradly requested you report to his office by thirteen-hundred hours."

Shit.

All the color drained from Jack's face. This was the last fucking thing he wanted to deal with when trying to prep his team for training. Why couldn't it wait until Monday?

Jack watched as Lieutenant Elliot's eyes scanned him up and down. He held his breath, hoping the cum stain on his thigh went unnoticed. Although, explaining what it was and how it got there seemed like something satisfying. These dipshits—the callow lieutenants who ordered _him_ around—probably had no idea what it was like to be with a woman, let alone indulge one in the ways he fulfilled Aubrey. Which meant they were experts on spotting jizz stains from a mile away because their clothing was the only place they were used to busting a nut on.

Lieutenant Elliot pursed his thin lips, and by the disappointment washing over his features, it was safe to assume he'd make it out of the unwarranted uniform inspection unscathed.

"I suggest," when he spoke, every word spilling from Lieutenant Elliot's mouth dripped with condescension, "you don't leave the Major waiting, Sergeant."

Irritation boiled in Jack's blood. It wasn't so much being ordered around that drove him to the edge. After a tenure as long as his, Jack wasn't an idiot. Being ordered around was a pillar of the job. He just despised being forced to give respect to those who didn't deserve a single ounce of it.

Respect the rank; not the man. That was advice Jack found funny, given his grandfather had told him something similar about his old man. Rank didn't change the fact whether or not someone's an asshole.

"Yes, sir," Jack said.

He was proud of himself for holding his composure, not popping the little shit in the mouth like he fucking deserved.

Without another word, Lieutenant Elliot pushed passed Jack and Davidson.

"What a fucking asshole," muttered Davidson. They both relaxed, spinning around to watch how the other soldiers in the hallway move out of the way and saluted as Lieutenant Elliot made his way. "It would be a _shame_ if something happened to him while we’re out this weekend."

Jack knew half the company was already plotting the Lieutenant's demise, less than thrilled about being stuck in the woods for the weekend with a man who had anger issues, and was too stupid to pour piss out of a boot even if the instructions were printed on the sole.

Turning his wrist over, Jack looked at the time. If he wanted to get his last actual meal in before loading up in the Humvee, he needed to get the dreadful meeting over with now. Plus, it made little sense to put it off—might as well rip off the band-aid.

"Rain check on chow? I'll get you next week when things aren't crazy."

Davidson slapped Jack on the arm, a move he hadn't seen coming.

"Don't worry about it. You can buy me a beer next Friday after work instead. I know of this halfway decent dive bar just outside of town. Bring the wife. It'll be good for us to get the girls together; get 'em off our backs for a change."

Jack's first instinct was to decline the offer.

The only thing he looked forward to every Friday was crawling into a bottle of whiskey after Aubrey fell asleep, then stumble into the bathroom to pop an Ambian so he could fall face-first into bed with seconds to spare before slipping into a state of blissful unconsciousness. Davidson was a decent guy, but Jack didn't like him enough to forego the treasured routine and mingle with the public just so they could _hang out_. 

Jack opened his mouth, ready to shoot Davidson down, but then he remembered the way Aubrey acted while he finished getting ready to leave. She's like a dog in heat, desperate for the opportunity to get out of the house and get a taste of the nightlife she missed.

It wouldn't hurt to loosen the short leash he kept her on once in a blue moon. The more he resisted her urges to go out and play, the more she'd tug, and the day she inevitably broke free will be the day he loses all control.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt for him to get out, too. All work and no play, that'd drive anyone crazy.

Even him.

"That's right, you just got married." Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. This small dose of small talk had him squirming, pretending to care about what went on in Davidson's life. "How's that going for you?"

"The blow jobs haven't stopped yet, so I guess I can't complain," chucked Davidson. Jack pulled out his most convincing fake laugh; he couldn't relate. His marriage wasn't a walking cliche—the blow jobs never stopped for him. "Jokes aside though, this is the first real taste of military life Meadow's gotten, and she's having a hard time adjusting. Aubrey… from what I've seen you've got yourself a good woman there, Jack. Maybe you can talk to her; ask her if she'll take Meadow under her wing and show her the ropes? With the deployments more than likely coming up, too, I'm sure it'll be good for the both of 'em to have a friend to lean on, ya know."

Jack knew, and the decision was a no-brainer. He didn't need to think twice about thrusting Aubrey into a support system which didn't include the malignant tumor that's her older brother.

"For sure I will. Aubs—Aubrey—she'd have no problem with that." Jack took steps backward, ready to make a break from this painful conversation. "Text me next week with the name of the bar and we'll figure out a time."

He didn't even give Davidson a chance to reply. Spinning on his heels, he headed to receive the ass-chewing of the decade.

* * *

__

With the knuckle of his middle finger, Jack tapped on the door.

Major Bradly waved him in, and only then did Jack enter the office. He stood at attention in front of the desk, raising his right hand in salute.

"Sergeant Jack Napier reports, sir."

Major Bradly casually saluted back, reaching for a pair of reading glasses at the edge of the desk. "At ease."

Jack lowered his arm and widened his stance, resting his overlapped hands—palms up—on his lower back. It felt good to slacken his upper body. The pulling, aching kinks in his back made him think about Aubrey's earlier massage, and how badly he wanted her fingers to knead a little harder next time.

He was on edge, waiting to have his ass handed to him.

"Sergeant Jack Napier—" Major Bradly cleared his throat and shuffled papers around his desk— "you graduated from Fort Benning… spent time at Forts Stewart and Carson before Mannheim, Germany. Then they shipped your sorry ass to the Balkans for Operation Joint Forge. You received a Bronze Star and Purple Heart during the campaign, is that correct?"

Jack willed himself to stand still. He was crawling out of his skin already; he didn't need someone to rattle off the bullet points of the last years of his life. He'd been there. He knows what happened and wished to forget it.

"That's correct, sir."

"A Bronze Star. They only give that to those who distinguished themselves with heroic actions. Are you a hero, Sergeant?"

What the fuck kind of question is that?

Jack shifted his weight, keeping his attention ahead and fixated on a chip in the blue paint behind Major Bradly's head.

"No, sir. I am not a hero."

"Then why were you awarded one if you're not?"

"I was nominated by my First Sergeant, and Lieutenant for attempting to pull a mortally wounded Specialist out of enemy fire, sir. I failed my objective."

The words tasted bitter on Jack's tongue.

"How did you fail?"

"I was shot in the chest. By a Serb sniper. I had no choice but to pull back."

"And the chest wound, that's how you received the Purple Heart?"

Jack internally screamed. He _hated_ telling this story. Why couldn't the dumb fuck just read the official report?

"No, sir. They awarded me the Purple Heart after a piece of shrapnel from a car bomb struck me in the leg. I was not injured after being shot."

Major Bradly took off his glasses and dropped them on the desk. He was in just as much disbelief as everyone else usually was after they find out.

"You were shot in the chest and made it out uninjured? Excuse my language, but how in the hell did that happen?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, sir."

Sitting back in his chair, Major Bradly crossed his arms over his chest. "I've been in the Army for over twenty-years. I've heard it all."

Jack swiped his tongue along his lower lip, moving his gaze down to meet Major Bradly's. "The _Joker_ card."

"I'm sorry— the what?"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Jack shifted his weight. He tried to warn him; this would just be so much easier if he'd been taken for his word.

"In my vest—" As soon as the words left his mouth, Jack had to force the knot in his throat down. When he blinked, the same images from earlier in the morning were back. This time far more vivid and taunting, and Aubrey wasn't there holding his hand, ready to pull him out from in front of the brick wall before it came tumbling down. Beads of cold sweat rolled down the back of Jack's neck. For a split second, he swore he felt the bruising force of the bullet on his chest. "—I was carrying the unit's deck of cards. The bullet lodged in the Joker card, instead of going straight through me."

Major Bradley sat back in his chair, fingers drumming against the too shiny desk as he digested what he'd been told. Jack kept his smug smile at bay, opting instead to move his sight back to the spot on the wall. Turns out the old bastard hadn't heard it _all_ , but now wasn't the time to point it out. He just wanted to get to the part where the punishment for being on his phone during the briefing was doled out.

"I've been watching you for the last couple of months, Sergeant…"

Jack's stomached twisted inside-out.

For months he's been watched? This had nothing to do with the briefing this morning. This is it—the moment where he's being told to pack his shit because the results of his latest psych evaluation came back and they have deemed him too _crazy_ for combat so the best they can do is offer him a spot at Headquarters. Going AWOL seemed like the best option, but that would be a bitter ending, making the last eight years of his life a total fucking waste. Being on the run with the constant worry of a long jail sentence if the law ever caught up to him seemed so miserable. He'd sneak his service pistol from the armory during the rush of the nightly check-in, then end it once and for all in the parking lot.

Aubrey's better off. She'd eventually get over it—get over _him_. Find herself a man who could sit through a fireworks display on the Fourth of July without having a breakdown. And if the VA denied her access to his benefits, it's not like she'd need the measly monthly cheque. Her father would bankroll the opulent lifestyle he couldn't afford her.

"… and I have to say, your team is one of the finest teams I've ever seen here at Fort Riley. Sergeant Nichols is being PCS'd at the end of the month, and he told me personally there's only one man he wants to see take over command of the squad when he leaves, and I couldn't agree more. You lead by example and do a damn fine job. I submitted your promotion recommendation to the board, and they approved it earlier in the week." Major Bradly stood and extended his hand to Jack. "Congratulations, _Staff_ Sergeant Napier."


	6. Chapter 6

"Three-day supply of MREs, two Twix bars, a compass, map, GPS, bayonet, three smoke grenades, my M4, Berretta, six mags of Simunition, canteen, two packs of smokes, waterproof matches, lighter, gloves, hand-warmers, ear-plugs, extra batteries for my radio, smelling salts, and a change of boxers and socks." Jack tightened the Velcro strap holding the bayonet to his thigh before resting his hands on his hips. He stared down, where most of his gear lay arranged on the grass. "Am I missing anything?"

Eyes fixated in a little mirror, Davidson smeared dark green and brown paint along his forehead and cheeks. "Brass knuckles."

"Brass knuckles… what the fuck for? Are you expecting hand-to-hand?"

"It's like having a condom in your wallet." He capped the tubes of paint and tossed them to Jack. "You don't know if you're going to end up using it, but you want it there in-case-of-emergency."

When put like that, how could such logic be argued?

Jack kicked himself for being stupid and leaving his brass knuckles at home. If only he remembered where he put them. He'd hidden them months ago from Aubrey. The mere thought of having to do that made Jack furrow his brows. He's losing control of _his_ household. The guns and the bayonet she was fine with, but she drew the line at brass knuckles.

Probably because she watched her father beat a man to death with them.

Oh, well.

She needed to get over it.

Plopping down in the grass beside Davidson, Jack snatched the mirror from him and started to messily smear the paint to his face. Jack didn't have a particular pattern he liked to use, unlike some the guys. Just as long every inch was plastered thickly in the deep hues, he’s happy.

Davidson wrapped a red band around the lower part of his bicep, rolling a piece of nicotine gum between his teeth. "How long do you think we'll last before Tweedledumb get us killed?"

Jack blackened his eyes and snorted. "I give it six hours."

Saying the words aloud made Jack's stomach turn. Lieutenant Elliot never failed to lead the platoon right into an ambush, no matter how many times the NCOs advised against retreating from their position of cover. He was too jumpy, and too young, and had no actual battlefield experience. Jack understood the occasional minor slip here and there, but with Iraq creeping into the back of his mind, this weekend was the genuine test of whether Jack would follow that man into combat.

He'd seen poor leadership be the downfall of too many good platoons. It would be a cold day in hell before he willing walked into a death trap _again_.

Once he finished with the face paint, Jack tossed the tubes into his backpack and reached for the cigarette behind his ear.

"On a lighter note," Davidson chucked. "How did Aubrey react to the big news of your promotion?"

Jack used his Zippo to light the smoke, then took a deep drag. He tucked the lighter into the breast pocket of his jacket, staring out into space. When he spoke, smoke wafted from his mouth.

"She's really happy," he lied.

Well, maybe it wasn't a _total_ lie. She'll be thrilled; Jack just hadn't told her yet, trying to figure out a way how to use the promotion to segway into the conversation about his reenlistment.

How could she expect him to savor the new title for only a couple of months before giving it all up?

If she's still as unselfish as he remembered her being when they first hooked up, she wouldn't expect him to give it up so soon. He just needed to make sure she thought the idea of another six years was _her_ idea.

Easier said than done. _Sometimes_ , she's not as gullible as he'd like. But after all, that is half the fun. Seeing just how far he could push her until she broke, ate from the palm of his hand. Some of Aubrey's strings were too easily pulled. Others, not so much; especially if she's already made up that stubborn mind of hers.

Jack flicked his cigarette, dropped to his knees, and packed up his gear. There was a heaviness in the air every one refused to acknowledge because they all knew the next time they packed their gear here at Fort Riley, they'd be headed to Arizona for desert training.

As he tucked away the foam ear-plugs, and smelling salts into a pocket in his vest, his hands trembled. It had been so heart wrenching, watching Aubrey breakdown into a blubbering mess in the car as they said their goodbyes, Jack wasn't sure if he was ready to do that again so soon.

"A buddy of mine who's at Fort Benning—" Davidson pulled Jack's mind back— “he told me something interesting. He thinks they're getting ready to re-open the app process—"

"Sergeant Napier!"

Jack's blood turned to ice when he heard Ryan Sullivan behind them. Was it too much to ask to not be interrupted every two-fucking-minutes?

"Yes, Sullivan," Jack twisted his neck, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Can you show us how to pack our molles again? None of us can get our gear to fit."

Jesus fucking Christ.

He's surrounded by idiots.

After all, isn't this what he wanted? Really, being sergeant was nothing more than a glorified pre-school teacher.

"I'll catch up with you, later," snickered Davidson.

Jack half-smiled to Davidson, standing up. He grabbed his molle and slung one strap over his shoulder before marching towards Sullivan. The words of ridicule weighed a thousand pounds as they sat on his tongue, locked and loaded to be thrown at Sullivan and the other three members of the team he commanded. But when Jack inched closer to Sullivan, he saw just how exhausted the poor kid was. That's when he swallowed every ounce of irritation. Sullivan had never been the type to come crawling to Jack when he tried something once and failed because it's too _hard_. The embarrassment of being a nuisance was written all over his face; a sentiment Jack was all too familiar with. 

Ripping Sullivan to shreds, calling him and the rest of the team idiots and every other word in the book like Jack experienced when he was their age would not solve a goddamn thing. There was only so much information that could be shoved into their depleted brains until it became too much and started seeping out of their ears. Jack wasn't in the business of being an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole, unlike most of his peers. There was no point in leaving those under his command to fend for themselves and grow resentful of him because he left them vulnerable. Jack understood being in war was a team-sport, but he also wanted his men to be self-sufficient and in the position to never have to rely on anyone but themselves.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Sergeant. We were paying attention but after the march this morn—"

Jack would never say it out loud, but his respect for Sullivan grew tenfold. He'd taken the lead in asking for help, even when he well enough knew it wasn't going to end well for him.

Still, Jack couldn't have them knowing he was this _soft._

"It's okay. I know, packing gear can sometimes use more brain cells than you're used to. I promise, I'll move a little slower this time."

* * *

Aubrey leaned against the doorjamb, staring at the unmade bed in their room.

The sheets and quilt were balled up and tangled, pillows were scattered. On his nightstand, the photo of them on the rainy Thursday afternoon they married—a mere three weeks after Aubrey turned eighteen, and many months before she graduated from high school—had fallen. Her inside-out panties sat in the middle of the floor from when Jack threw them over his shoulder sometime around two in the morning.

Aubrey tried to cross the threshold so she could clean up the aftermath of what happened earlier. She'd scrubbed the rest of the apartment clean, she was ready to tackle the mess in there. But every time she tried to walk in, it was as if there were some sort of force much stronger pushing her out. It wasn't demonic, per se, though it was something inhuman and sinister. Leaving that energy to grow and fester wasn't an option for her, and especially not good for Jack. He'd lock himself in there with a bottle of whatever liquor he got his hands on and drink alone, allowing the heavy negativity to feed the memories he tried so hard to bury.

In the past, whenever he'd have a panic attack which left a room in ruins, all Aubrey would do was clean up and move on as if nothing happened. That wasn't working, and it was time to change tactics. As she bent down and picked up the black contractor garbage bag, Aubrey opened it and kicked the laundry basket with the clean bedsheets she'd bought earlier in the day towards the bed. There was no amount of bleach or Pine Sol in the world that could wash away the beasts of the past. Maybe ridding their lives of the things they'd brought over from Kosovo would.

She heard Jack's maniacal laughter, taunting her silly reasoning. It seemed stupid on the surface, that throwing away their old bedsheets and replacing them with something modern was going to put an end to the havoc. What he needed was a good psychiatrist—or an exorcism—but when he refused to take responsibility for his wellbeing out of fear of being ostracized from the Army, this was the best she had to work with.

First, Aubrey stuffed the quilt and flat sheet into the bag. Then she ripped off the fitted sheet, and shook their pillows free from the cases before throwing those away, too. It was liberating to purge. Already, it was feeling better in there.

Every move she made after putting the white fitted sheet on was deliberate and precise. The flat sheet had tight, squared corners; the pillows were stacked; the fluffy black duvet started halfway down the bed and was tucked perfectly under the mattress.

When she finished, Aubrey opened the curtains and shut off the light. The bright sunlight flooded the room, showing off her hard work. She stood off to the side, wiping the beads of sweat rolling down the side of her face.

Seeing the bed made with such precision, Aubrey's cheeks grew hot. Her fists clenched into such tight balls, her nails left half-moon indents in her palms.

He wasn't even home, and here she was making the bed how _Jack_ liked it. She was so worn down from the years of him berating her for not doing like they had taught him in boot camp it was second nature to Aubrey now.

She wasn't living her life—she's living his.

And he could take his squared corners and shove them up his ass for all she cared.

Tears bubbling in her eyes, Aubrey lunged forward. She tore the corners out from under the mattress and balled the duvet into the center of the bed, grabbing the pillows and arranging them how she's always wanted them.

Off the floor, she picked up the dirty clothes. She tied the garbage bag and then dusted the furniture. Instead of fixing the photo on Jack's nightstand, Aubrey left it facedown.

As she left the bedroom, she dragged the garbage bag behind her and left it by the door. She'd bring it down to the dumpster Sunday afternoon when she headed out to pick Jack up from base. Until then, all she wanted to do was chill and enjoy the time alone.

Opening the closet door, Aubrey sat cross-legged on the floor. She rummaged through the mountain of shoe boxes until she found the beige box of her precious Christian Louboutin's. Prying off the lid, Aubrey picked up the right pump and shoved her hand into it, pulling out a Ziplock bag with two joints nestled inside.

Her brother, Aleksei—who they affectionally called Sasha—slipped her four of them when she and Jack went home for Christmas. Being back in Gotham with her mother hounding her every second for grandchildren, her father and uncles trying to pull Jack into the _family business_ , and Jack’s nerves grated from the stress of seeing his family, bong rips in the garage with Sasha at all hours of the day was how Aubrey kept her sanity.

Tucking a joint into the corner of her mouth, Aubrey put the evidence of her delinquency away, and got up to fetch her lighter from the box of Frosted Flakes in the kitchen. Plopping down on the couch, she laid back. With the ashtray resting on her stomach, Aubrey lit up and took the first hit.

The smoke burned, tickling her chest and the back of her throat as she exhaled a cloud. While she coughed, the apartment filled with a sour, earthy stench. She'd have to air the place out before Jack came home, but that was the last thought on her mind before taking another drag. This one was deeper, and she held it in longer, which made her cough far more than the first time.

This was the only way she could relax nowadays, the Xanax doing almost nothing to mellow her out enough. She wished Jack didn't have a worry of random drug-tests under his belt. He was far more open to the idea of natural relaxants, not the pills the Army doctors pushed on him.

One last hit, Aubrey dropped the joint into the ashtray and set it on the table. She rolled onto her side, hugging the throw pillow to her chest, and closed her eyes.

It didn't take long to start feeling the effects. Anxiety melted away, making room for the euphoria to settle in. The sharp edges of her world softened, becoming less deadly and more welcoming. She could breathe again.

Finally, on the cusp of a nap, Aubrey jolted awake when the house phone rang in the kitchen. Frustrated, she groaned and rolled off the couch, mumbling every step of the way. Without bothering to look at the name splashed across the caller-ID, she answered.

"Hello?"

"My, my." It was Jack. "What's got you all _twisted_? Did the commissary not have your Twinkies in stock again?"

Ooh… Twinkies.

"I'll have you know," she said, moving to the pantry to fish one from the box she broke into while driving home, "they had them in stock. You calling me is what has me all _twisted._ "

Aubrey held the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she ripped into the package and took a bite. It never tasted sweeter.

"Can't say I blame you. Every time I see it's you calling me, I wanna throw my phone against the wall."

"Funny; you and I have that in common. Why are you bothering me? Don't you have _work_ to do—or do my tax dollars pay for you and your friends to sit around, drink coffee, and gab like middle-aged women all day?"

" _Your_ tax dollars… now that's a good joke. Remind me again, Ms. Mikhailov, when is the last time you paid taxes."

She swallowed her bite of Twinkie. " _Ya nyeh govoryu po-angliyski_."

_I don't speak English._

Aubrey heard him chuckle, and then the flick of his Zippo. "Your _papasha_ has taught you well."

"You have, yes."

"Goddamn, Aubs." Jack breathed. She bit her lower lip and leaned against the counter. Hearing him sound like he's in a better, playful mood made Aubrey smile. "We're, uh, we're headed out, cupcake, so I was just calling to say goodbye. I'll be home before you even have a chance to miss me."

Aubrey cleared the lump in her throat. The last phone call was always the worst. "Who said I was gonna miss you? I've got the entire bed to myself for a weekend, and I don't have to fight you over what movies to rent."

"You saw I put the numbers for the Red Cross, and the barracks on the fridge, right?"

He ignored her jokes, and the strain in his voice grew thick, which only made the hole in Aubrey's heart grow deeper. Jack was trying just as hard as she was to hold it together.

She glanced over to the fridge and saw the scrap of paper tucked under the Pizza Hut magnet. "Yep, I added it to my phone just like you told me to."

"Good girl. If anything happens, call your dad first because God only knows how long it'll take the Red Cross to get a hold of me out in the middle of fucking nowhere."

Before the first tear fell, Aubrey wiped it away. "I will. I miss you already, Jack. Please, please stay warm."

"I promise I'll do the best I can."

"That's all I ask."

Strolling back into the family room, Aubrey curled into the corner of the couch. 

"Take care of yourself, yeah? Don't do anything _too_ crazy."

Aubrey nodded and told him he had nothing to worry about. She didn't trust herself to say anything more, afraid if she did the tears would start and he'd hang up on her.

"We're loading up in the Humvees, so I've gotta go."

Aubrey wanted to scream. She hated this weird tension between them, like they were strangers trying to force a conversation. It was awkward, and she was nowhere near high enough to be dealing with this shit. The quicker they ended this failure of a call, the sooner they could get back to their respective lives.

"Be safe; I love you, and I'll see you on Sunday."

"I'll see you Sunday… Hey, Aubs—I, uh, I love you, too."

* * *

Sitting on the couch and elbow deep in a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, Aubrey licked the bright red dust off her fingers. Her attention was glued to the television, unable to find interest in anything other than binge watching Law and Order for the better part of the day.

She relished in the alone time, determined to soak up every ounce of peace and quiet until Jack came home.

Hearing a knock at the door, Aubrey turned down the volume on the television. She didn't expect any visitors; Sasha was in Moscow smoothing out a snagged business deal for their father, so the chance of this being one of his surprise visits was slim-to-none. When the echoing knock flooded the apartment again, Aubrey got up and headed to the door. There was a baseball bat resting in the corner, within arm's reach if she was unlucky enough to need it.

Unlocking the deadbolt, she kept the chain latched and opened the door. Her heart jumped into her throat; she slapped a hand over her mouth and closed the door. As fast as her hands allowed, Aubrey unlatched the chain and re-opened the door.

A beautiful bouquet of pink peonies in one hand and a bottle of merlot in the other, he smiled his usual smug way. Aubrey couldn't remember the last time she saw him in civilian clothing, let alone a charcoal wool-blend business suit. The tie was loosened, and he undid the first couple of buttons to reveal the chain of the St. Michael medal he always wore.

"Well, if it isn't Danny Baker," crooned Aubrey. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Baker took a step inside the apartment.

"I'm at Fort Riley on business for a couple of days, so when I found out Jack's stationed here, there's no way I could head back to D.C. without stopping by to say hello to my favorite lovebirds.”

Baker's Brooklyn accent was still thick as ever, despite not having lived in the borough for the last sixteen years. The mocha tresses were a lot shaggier than the last time she saw him, though it still looked clean cut and professional. He'd also put on weight since he left the Army, not too long after he and Jack finished their last tour.

Regardless, Baker looked happy and healthy.

She wished she could say the same of Jack.

"You just missed him. His company left for FTX this afternoon—" she gestured to the flowers— "but I'll make sure he gets those when he comes back. Can't make any promises about the wine, though."

"Always such the smartass. Some things never change," he muttered. "I know he's gone. I saw him all geared up getting into a Humvee when the meeting I was in broke for lunch. The flowers are for you."

When Baker held out the bouquet for Aubrey to take, there was no stopping the fluttering in her belly. No one's bought her flowers before. She always bought them for herself.

Aubrey took hold of the vibrant green stems, hoping that when she dipped her head to inhale the sweet and rosy aroma, it hid the furious blush seeping into her cheeks. She hated how Baker sometimes made her feel this way—like an infatuated schoolgirl with a crush on the school's most attractive teacher.

"They're beautiful. Thank you."

Baker half-smiled, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, threading fingers through the soft strands. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. This time Aubrey caught the menthol-y vanilla and oak notes of his faded aftershave.

He still wears Aqua Velva.

Some things never change.

Snapping back to real-life—not the fantasy of what-could-have-been—Aubrey nudged her chin towards the kitchen.

"Are you hungry? I'm sure you're tired to hotel food, and the _delectable_ chow choices you have on base. If you want, I have cabbage rolls I can reheat."

Baker lifted his arm to hike up the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. It was all for show, trying to make it seem like he hadn't blocked out the rest of the night to spend with her.

"Yeah, I could eat."

Aubrey headed to the kitchen, waving her hand to signal Baker to follow. Setting the flowers on the counter, she grabbed a vase from under the sink. After filling it with water and sprinkling in the food, she cut the stems. From the corner of her eye, she saw Baker shed his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair before searching through the drawers for a corkscrew.

"You said you're at Fort Riley on business." Aubrey broke the silence. "Would that business by chance have anything to do with what's going on in the Middle East?"

Baker popped the bottle of wine, and she pointed him toward the glasses. He grabbed two and poured.

"If I told you, you know I'd have to kill ya."

Aubrey would have laughed if it weren't for the fact he wasn't joking. Taking on a civilian job with the Defense Intelligence Agency after leaving the Army, Baker's work was just as classified as if he worked for the CIA.

Arranging the flowers in the vase, Aubrey moved it to the breakfast bar, turning back to the fridge to grab the containers of cabbage rolls and tomato sauce. She made him a plate, then popped it into the microwave. Baker handed her the glass of wine, and she took it with a thank you.

"Throw me a bone here, Danny." Aubrey took a sip. "Are there gonna be any deployments?"

Baker rested his hip against the counter, loosening the Windsor knot even more. He took a gulp of wine, one big enough to empty half the glass. By how he stared straight through her, Aubrey figured it out.

Her heart was in her throat, and the sting of tears rimming her eyes caught her off guard. She believed Jack when he told her the possibility of a deployment was slim, and now she was the biggest fucking fool.

"He's done in seven months! They—they can't send him over there when his separation date is so clo—"

"Be real," he interrupted. "You saw it happen to me in Bosnia. Now that Jack's in the First Division, he's looking at… a year of involuntary extension. Maybe."

Aubrey set her wine glass down and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. When she dropped her arms back to her sides, Baker was staring at her with sympathy. "Fuck. Another nineteen months of this shit? I—" her voice grew thick, and it was difficult to force the words out over the painful lump in her throat— "I don't know if I can do it."

Baker set his glass down, too, taking a small step towards Aubrey. He wrapped her in his arms, cradling her head to his chest.

Aubrey froze. It was odd, uncomfortable, being swathed in such a way by another man who wasn't Jack, her father, or her brother. She rested her hands on his sides, hesitating before curling her arms around him.

It was a warm, friendly, comforting hug. No more, no less. Something she didn't know she needed.

"This'll be nothin'," whispered Baker. He nuzzled his nose into her hair. "He'll go to Fallujah, fire his rifle a handful of times, and spend a majority of his nights playing poker and tossing a football around."

She mumbled into his chest, "I wish you were going with him. Keep his head straight, stop him from doing anything stupid."

"He doesn't need me anymore; kid did my job without battin' a fuckin' eye. Jack'll be fine, Aubs, and so will you."

Fighting back more tears, Aubrey sprang from Baker's arms when the timer on the microwave chimed. She grabbed the piping hot plate—the searing heat of the thick ceramic not even fazing her as she grabbed a fork, knife, napkin, and set everything down at the table.

"I'm holding you to that," she said.

"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't think it was true." Baker sat down, wasting no time digging into the first home cooked meal he's had in weeks. "But, if you start feeling like a recluse when he's gone, you know you've always got a place to stay in D.C.. I'll take you to the museums."

Aubrey stayed standing, drinking her wine. "I'm not sure how thrilled your wife would be about me crashing with you guys. She doesn't like me very much. Especially after the Army Ball in Germany, when you and I spent half the night dancing."

"That's her fault for not taking the stick outta her ass. We were all fuckin' hammered that night."

"Yeah, I could barely walk straight myself, and I ended up practically carrying Jack back to our room after _you_ decided it would be a good idea to do shots of Jäger."

"When in Munich." Baker shrugged. "I still can't believe we got him out on the dance floor. He was breaking out those booze-moves to _It's Raining Men_."

"People don't give him enough credit," defended Aubrey. "I know he's _Mr. Serious_ whether he's in uniform or not, but he knows how to let loose and have fun when it counts."

An energy shift in the room gave Aubrey the chills. There was something peculiar in the way Baker slowed his chewing, pointing the knife at her as he swallowed.

"I don't think you give him enough credit either."

She furrowed her bow, polishing off the rest of the wine in her glass. Aubrey didn't know if she should be insulted over such a ridiculous assertion. Who the hell did he think he is, saying that to her?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing personal." Wiping his mouth with the napkin, Baker sat back in the chair. "I know you're high school sweethearts and all, but I feel you don’t know how much of a badass motherfucker Jack is."

Rolling her eyes, Aubrey snatched her pack of cigarettes off the top of the fridge and lit one. She quipped, "Please—enlighten me on how much of a _badass motherfucker_ my husband is."

Baker got up and closed the void between them. He took a cigarette from Aubrey's pack and she handed him the lighter. While he took a drag, Aubrey sensed he was deep in thought, trying to formulate the words into an idea she'd understand.

"So, we were in Tuzla with the Russkies, right? One night, me, Martinez, and Wilson ended up going out on a patrol with one of their units. We ended up in crossfire…" Baker stopped, shaking his head. "It's hard to explain. It's one of those you-had-to-be-there things, ya know."

Aubrey blew smoke above their heads, eyeing him. "Tell me."

Baker rolled his shoulders. He didn't talk much about tours either.

"We radioed back to command for support because there was no way we were getting out there without backup, and we waited for like an hour behind this building that was just hollowed out from all airstrikes. Just as I was about to throw a Hail Mary and suggest we make a run for it, here comes a fucking convoy of tanks headed in our direction, with Jack sitting on the front of the leading one. His arm hooked around the barrel, cigarette in his mouth, rifle in one hand, a bottle of rakija in the other."

Baker didn't have to say anything more for her to imagine it. An overwhelming sense of pride filled her, but there was also no denying the one sentiment she hadn't felt in a very long time… jealousy.

She wasn't jealous in the insecure, childish way when she was a senior and other girls tried to climb Jack like a tree when he came home to visit her on leave. What shook Aubrey to the core, forcing sharp claws of bitterness into her heart, was coming face-to-face with the reality that men like Baker—the ones who'd been thrown into the bowels of hell with Jack—were the ones who knew him on the intimate level she'd never get to experience.

What kind of fucking bullshit is that?

She put in the work attempting to glue the pieces of his former self back together, and in return all Jack did was push her away.

Setting her glass of wine aside, she put the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. She grabbed a rocks glass from the cabinet, fished out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured three fingers. When Aubrey took a sip of the chilled, syrupy liquor, a sublime burn tingled in her chest, belly, and face. Holding the glass to her chest, she moved her gaze to Baker.

"He won't tell me anything about what happened in Bosnia." Taking another sip, she licked a bead of vodka from her bottom lip. "He's shutting me out. And no matter what I do or say, he just acts like none of it ever happened."

Baker took the glass from Aubrey, pouring himself a shot. He tossed it back before pouring another.

"That's because his mind never left. Some guys… they never get over that shit."

Aubrey snorted. "You did."

Tilting his head to the side, Baker pursed his lips.

That's debatable.

"Bosnia—yes. I _got over_ that," he mused. "But Desert Storm; let's just say that's an entirely different story. All you can do is give him space and time—remind him you love him, and that you're here. When Jack's ready, he'll come to you. Once he's out and acclaimed back into civilian life, that's when it'll happen. Right now, he's just doing what they have trained him to do; push it down and pretend there isn't an issue even though I guarantee you he thinks about blowing his brains out _at least_ three times a day."

"So, I just have to put a smile on my face and let him keep treating me like shit?"

Aubrey brushed off the guilt for ignoring Baker's blunt assertion about Jack's struggle with his inner-demons. But there was only so much she could do. Feeling guilty over Jack struggling to hold on to the last shreds of his life wasn't her burden… right? Especially after he's refused time and time again to accept the help she and his doctors offered.

Except, it is her burden; that's what marriage is about. There was no way of knowing if Jack felt the same, but for Aubrey, her love for him was genuine, and for that reason she'd never let go of him no matter how hard _he_ fought back.

The moment those words left Aubrey's mouth, she wished she could shove them back in. It was beyond unfair to throw Jack under the bus like that. The scrunching of Baker's forehead was the first give away of his concern.

It was hard for Baker to digest what Aubrey said.

"He's—he's treating you like shit? How so?"

Aubrey swiped the glass of vodka Baker poured off the counter, drinking it. "He's not. We're just going through a rough patch is all. Every couple has those—we do fight, despite you assholes thinking otherwise."

Even she didn't believe her own lie.

Tugging the glass out of her hand, he set it back down before resting his hands on his hips. Baker's mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything. The Jack he knew didn't have a vile bone in his body—a man who avoided confrontation and trouble. Jack was a bit… emotionally sensitive, sure, though it was hard to imagine anything else.

But then again, a decade and a half in the military, Baker had seen the most respectable soldiers turn in the biggest bastards to walk the planet. No fault of their own.

She didn't deserve this, nor did Jack.

"What's going on with you two?"

Aubrey was way too high for a conversation like this. She needed to take control, and she needed to do it fast.

"I said, nothing. Drop it—please."

Her words were sharp and clear, laced with a warning Baker didn't heed. This wasn't something he could _drop_ , like it was some playground tiff which would sort itself out if ignored. The statistics weren't in her favor, and he liked Aubrey too much to let her become one. If something sinister was happening in this apartment, Baker would straighten it out.

Rather, Baker would straighten _him_ out.

"What," he started, slowly, "is going on with you two?"

Aubrey jammed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt. She huffed with raw annoyance—mostly with herself for so stupidly saying something in the first place—and looked up to the ceiling.

Why wouldn't he just fucking drop it? All this conversation did was make her feel like a teenager. Bringing back the memories of when her father interrogated her about her relationship with Jack after Jack accidentally gave her a black eye. 

"Nothing is going on. Like I said. It's just a rough patch."

"A rough patch is not _nothing_. You can be honest with me." Baker treaded carefully. Getting Aubrey to open up to anyone other than Jack was close to impossible. It required a specific formula. "I never told anyone about what happened when Jack was in Serbia. That secret is between you and me, and anything you tell me right now will be that way, too." He watched her throat undulate as she swallowed hard. There was a cold shift in the air that made Baker shiver. The deep blue drained from her eyes; her expression turning apathetic. "Please, tell me what's going on. I just wanna be sure you're okay."

She shook her head at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Then she smiled—wide and radiant. When she spoke, her voice was light and cheerful. Breezy.

"You need sleep, Danny. You're losing your mind. Jack and I are doing great."

Baker's heart shattered. It was as though he was talking to a completely different person.

Had he read the situation wrong? Did he read too much into what she said?

He was dumbfounded as Aubrey poured more vodka. She put the cap back on the bottle and shoved it into the freezer. Baker sat in on too many interrogations at CIA black-sites to not recognize what was going on. He wouldn't let her play him for a fool. This conversation was far from over.

When she started walking away, Baker reached out and grabbed her arm. The glass slipped out of her hand, and vodka splashed all over the floor.

She jerked her arm out of his loose grip, putting them both up in front of her face.

"Holy shit, Aubs."

That was all Baker needed for the truth to backhand him across the face.

* * *

Jack rested against a tree truck scarfing down a tepid MRE.

The package read spaghetti and marinara, but who knew if that's what it comprised.

Shoveling in another bite, he took in his surroundings. It was dark; the tangerine sun long since slipped behind the horizon. Bare branches swayed in the wind, and the chill in the air bit through the thick layers. He smelled the impending snow, which only made Jack miss home more. The faintest smile ghosted his lips at the teasing vision of Aubrey and how cute she must look snuggled up in her ridiculous fleece onesie pajamas.

Still, no matter how much he longed to be curled on the couch with her, he was right where he loved being. Freezing his ass off far away from civilization, eating Army noodles and ketchup with only war-games to look forward to for the next several days.

Off in the distance, he spotted a few members of his squad. They were laughing, playing catch with a rock they'd found. Jack remembered what it had been like to be them. Nineteen, twenty years old, when the biggest responsibilities were not fucking up the simplest tasks, keeping the barracks clean, and making it to formation on time. They seemed at ease, ignorantly so, not having a clue about what was about to hit them.

In a handful of weeks, the news would break that they'd be headed to Iraq. Guys like Ryan Sullivan would take their ten days of leave to go home. Spend as much time as possible with their families and friends, get their dicks wet one final time for God knows how long. Then they'd be taken by the bus-load to the nearest Air Force base where they'd climb into a C-17 airplane, which would take them right into Hell.

For fifteen months—thirteen, if they're lucky—they'll do the best they can to stay alive.

And after it's all said and done…

… who the fuck knows.

A molle backpack hitting the ground beside him tore Jack from crawling too far inside his mind. He didn't need to look up to see it was Davidson who joined him. The Privates were too intimidated to get any closer, and the other NCOs kept their distance for reasons Jack couldn't care less about.

"How does that taste?" asked Davidson.

"Like shit." Jack forced down the last bite, then took a swig from his canteen to wash away the sour aftertaste. The cool water coupled with his chilled insides made him shiver. He muttered, "It's freezing out here."

Holding a steaming MRE in one hand, Davidson unzipped his thick winter jacket and reached in with the other. From the pocket, he pulled out a flask and handed it to Jack. "That'll keep you warm."

Jack clutched the aluminum flask in his hand, glancing up to make sure there were no prying eyes on him. The last thing he needed was to get caught drinking on the job so soon after tying up the last loose end of his alcohol-related arrest. It wasn't the first time he's taken a nip while out in the field, be it was the perfect way to warm up or calm the last of the jittering nerves before taking that first step into chaos. So Jack couldn't figure out why it was so difficult for him to unscrew the cap and take the goddamn shot. Everyone did it, and truth be told no one trusted a man in their unit if they passed up the opportunity for a taste.

He was overthinking the entire situation—that's it. He didn't want to do anything that would fuck up his promotion before Aubrey even had the chance to—quite literally—punch the new insignia onto his chest.

_Aubrey._

God, he missed her.

And if she was here right now, she'd tell him to stop being a little bitch and take the fucking drink.

He smiled at the thought.

Unscrewing the cap, Jack took a swig. It was cheap bourbon, the shit he would steal from the liquor store when he was seventeen and didn't know any better.

To each their own.

Fighting back the urge of cough, Jack handed Davidson the flask. "Earlier you were saying something about a buddy of yours at Fort Benning…"

Jack didn't want to sound too eager or clingy, but his interested had been too piqued to let go of what Davidson had been brought up. He had an inkling of what it was, and this opportunity was something Jack had been waiting far too long for to just ignore.

"Oh, yeah, that's right." Davidson put the flask away and took another bite from his MRE. "They're opening up the application process for RASP pre-screening—"

Jack stopped rummaging for his Twix.

RASP.

Ranger Assessment and Selection Program.

A destination that Jack dreamt of, but it always seemed so far out of reach ever since he dropped out of airborne school for infantry. Giving up his dream was the single dumbest thing he's ever done for _love_.

Every time he brought up the idea to Aubrey about joining a wing of the special operation forces, she never failed to shut the conversation down. Her father had been in the Spetsnaz during his tenure in the Red Army for fuck's sake. Why the hell was she trying so hard to keep him from growing; become the best of the best?

Maybe she didn't have as much faith in him as she claimed to.

"—wasn't sure if that's something you'd be interested in," finished Davidson. "I could never figure out why you've been wasting your time with the bottom-of-the-barrel shit when you've got the brain to be climbing the ladder."

Because Aubrey's a controlling bitch—that's why he's stuck where he is. Miserable and always dreaming of what-could-have-been if he hadn't let her grab him by the balls when they were teenagers.

He's done catering to her _feelings._

It's not like he gave a shit how she'd react if he went home on Sunday and dropped the bomb on her about applying to become a Ranger. This isn't her decision to make; it's his and his alone. He's the one putting a roof over her head, food in her goddamn belly, and giving her the financial freedom to buy three of the same sweater because she needs _different colors for different seasons._ If Aubrey has a problem with the way _he_ replenishes the checking account, then she can drag her spoilt-brat ass back to her mobster daddy's house.

He's the head of _this_ household.

He calls the shots.

She's just lucky to be along for the ride.


	7. Chapter 7

Aubrey fought to breathe under the crushing tension.

He's tired.

Over the last four days he strung together a whole thirteen hours of sleep. It was her being greedy thinking he'd come home a chatter box, eager and animated, telling her about everything that happened in the field.

She missed those days, back when he'd talk her ear off, using jargon that wasn't at all foreign. Now, it was as if they were total strangers being forced to share a meal together. Like they had nothing in common to talk about, so the best choice was to sit and suffer through the awkward silence until they could go about their respective lives.

 _"I read eight percent of Army marriages end in divorce._ " She remembered Sasha once taunting. " _There's no shame in walking away._ "

Except Aubrey wasn't a quitter. She wouldn't become a statistic so easily—so what if dinner was awkward? This wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

Dropping a glob of sour cream into her bowl of steaming borscht, she stirred it, watching the rich red broth turn thick and bright pink.

"How was FTX?"

"Fine."

Jack didn't look up to meet her gaze. He ripped off a hunk of bread from one of the crusty slices she gave him and dunked it into the soup.

Aubrey dropped her spoon into the bowl, running a hand through her hair. "Can you try to meet me halfway here, Jack?"

"What do you want me to say?" He shrugged, stuffing borscht soaked bread into his mouth. "There was a… friendly fire _incident_ ; Pierce shot me in the back of the thigh while I was pissing at like two A.M., because he thought I was someone from Alpha, and I almost smoked Rossi because the inbred psycho wanted to shoot every animal we crossed paths with. It was a good weekend."

He meant every word of that, unironically.

Aubrey winced. Now she knew not to be surprised if she found a new bruise on him.

"So, Pierce and Rossi were up to their usual antics. How did Sullivan do? Are you still thinking about moving him to be a turret gunner?"

"Why do you give a shit if Hammerhead is on the turret?"

"I don't. It's called, trying to make a conversation. If you weren't such a fucking asshole like your fa—" Aubrey stopped herself "—if you weren't an asshole, you'd be able to recognize when people are being friendly with you." Losing her appetite, Aubrey pushed the bowl into the center of the table. She folded her arms down. All she wanted was a nice evening with Jack, savor every second until he left for work again in the morning. "And another thing; I think Sullivan's eyes are proportionally spaced on his face, so it's pretty mean to be calling him Hammerhead. You really need to come up with a new nickname."

Jack smiled, pointing the spoon at her. "You're on the rag. That's why you're being all, _overdramatic_.”

Aubrey cocked her head, offering only a hint that she gloved up and climbed into the ring with him.

"Now you really sound like your old man, _Junior."_

Brushing the crumbs off of his fingers, Jack lowered his head, peering at her through eyelashes. His stare was icy, the inky black pools that were his pupils doubled, but still Aubrey refused to apologize. Sometimes he needed to be humbled by being reminded he possessed the ability to all too much resemble the man whose namesake he is.

It was a blow below the belt, a choice never made flippantly.

Jack moved his jaw side-to-side.

"No, I don't." His voice was rough with gravel. "I am nothing like my old man."

Leaning into the table, Aubrey held Jack's gaze. Her heart raced, and she moved her hands down to her lap to not give him the satisfaction of seeing nerves take hold. Maintaining the hard exterior was all that mattered now. If he so much as caught a whiff of her fear, he'd turn the tables on her before Aubrey asked, _what happened?_

"You had me fooled, Junior."

When he scrubbed his hands over his face, he forced himself to relax. The lack of sleep, coupled with the pressure of telling Aubrey about his promotion, and bringing up the idea of him going to Ranger school was almost too much for him to stand under. If he took his frustrations out on Aubrey, all it would do is make her stubbornness a lot harder to break through.

It was time to swallow his pride and play the long game. He'd forgive now, albeit he'd _never_ forget.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole… I'm just exhausted, Aubs. Since I've got so many leave days saved up, I'm thinking about putting in a request to take a week off." Jack held his breath, watching Aubrey. She relaxed, her shoulders sloughing as she picked up her spoon and moved it around in circles in the tepid soup. "We should do what we used to do when we started dating—pack a bag, hit the highway, spend a couple of nights at the first shady motel we find. I think that would do the both of us some good, you know."

Letting his words soak in, Aubrey unclenched her aching jaw. Her shoulder unlatched from her earlobes. He caught her off guard by bringing up the idea first. Normally she's the one who has to bring it up, make him realize he’s legally bound to take leave every once in a while. He's reaching the point of burnout; there's no other reason he'd want to be home with her for a week straight.

Sudden movements startled him, so Aubrey made sure he saw her hand before she put it on top of his, stroking his dry, cracked knuckles.

He hadn't worn his gloves like he promised.

The son-of-a-bitch.

"That sounds perfect." She squeezed his hand. "Maybe we can really make it like old times… stop at a sketchy gas station, and I flirt with the guy behind the counter while you steel mini bottle of liquor and condoms."

Jack smiled wickedly, his milk-chocolate eyes burning with lasciviousness, which made Aubrey quiver. He dipped his head, closing the distance between their mouths, capturing her bottom lip between his. She inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering closed. When Jack slipped his tongue into her mouth, she tasted the lingering sweet-sourness of borscht. Her hand gripped his a little tighter while the other went straight for the back of his sturdy neck. A soft moan bubbled in her throat, bursting the moment Jack gripped her thigh with the sort of possession that made her belly burn with security. When he pulled away, Aubrey was dizzy.

He left her fighting to form a basic coherent thought thanks to the inebriating show of affection. Warmth she hadn't felt from him in so long, making her wonder if the flame of his passion for her mellowed into something colder. Like he was growing bored with her.

Jack brought his mouth to her ear. His breath grazing her flesh was blistering. "I'm not seventeen anymore, so stealing the uh, _condoms_ , just seems gratuitous."

Aubrey bit her lip, her cheeks burning white hot.

They fell into a comfortable conversation with a little nudging on Aubrey's part. She ate, listening intently to every word he said about how the weekend went. Her heart was lighter seeing his eyes still blazed with an innocent excitement.

Maybe Baker was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't take years for Jack to come back around.

Baker.

The world around her faded out, and Aubrey swallowed hard, remembering Friday night. She had to save her ass one way or another—getting ahead of the approaching storm was the only way she'd come out of this alive.

"Danny stopped by."

" _Oh_?" Jack lifted his bowl to slurp the last of the soup, getting up to ladle himself more from the pot on the stove. “He just so happened to be in the neighborhood on the exact weekend I’m gone?"

He set the bowl back on the table and then moseyed to the refrigerator.

"He said he's here on business," chimed Aubrey.

She spun around in her chair as Jack grabbed the orange juice, tossed the cap on the counter to drink straight from the carton.

"That makes me feel a little… left out."

Without putting the cap back on, Jack shoved the carton into the fridge before slamming the door shut. None of it fazed Aubrey. Those were nothing more than his annoying little habits she's learned to live with.

"He was only here for a couple of minutes," she assured. The bouquet of luscious peonies Baker had given her were withered and frozen in the dumpster on the side of the building. "Once I told him you weren't here, he left."

Sliding back into the chair, Jack hunched over, his arms circling around the bowl in position to protect his chow as he shoveled it in.

He suppressed the urge to laugh right in her face. What a horrible lie she so stupidly sipped. Maybe she had her reasons, but Jack would never figure out what they are if he played his hand too early. He was well aware of Baker's presence in this boor patch of middle America. The asshole all but waved at Jack on Friday afternoon. Baker tried to keep hidden, but it seemed the once sharp soldier lost his wit the moment he hung up his M4 for an insipid, six-figure job in Washington. It was a little too unsettling for him that Baker still showed up at the door despite knowing of Jack’s absence.

"Is that so?" Jack casually pointed to the wine rack sitting in the counter's corner. "You're missing three bottles. You'd put away a fifth of Russian Standard before drinking three bottles of wine by yourself in two days."

Jack was far more observant about things that went on around there than Aubrey was aware of. He noticed how on Friday nights for the last couple of weeks the apartment smelt sickly sweet, not because she spent the day cleaning, but because she was trying to mask the scent of the weed she smoked right before he got home. He also noticed how she stopped wearing her hair straight ever since they lived in Germany and he yelled at her after she accidentally left the flat iron on and it left scorch marks on the cheap vanity in the bathroom.

Long ago, he'd noticed how the same box of tampons she kept under the sink never seemed to run out. Jack figured that was because if she actually used those tampons, then she wouldn't have a place to hide the birth control pills she so doltishly thought he knew nothing about.

Aubrey couldn't hold it in any longer. It's been festering all weekend, finally boiling over.

"He told me about what's going on in Iraq," she blurted. "You promised me there was nothing to worry about—"

"There is nothing for you to worry about."

"Tell me the truth, Jack. Don't play me for a fucking fool anymore."

Jack carefully set the spoon in the bowl, pushing it aside. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then balled it up. He had two choices: either fess up now so she'd be too emotionally drained to care about what he had planned for the future, or keep pushing it off until the last minute so he wouldn't be around for too long after and have to suffer through the consequences of his decision.

He wished he didn't care enough about her to choose the latter.

"It's not looking good; last I heard, negotiations are breaking down, and if a deal isn't reached within the next couple of weeks, then… The Marines are already in Kuwait, so I don't think I have to tell you what means. It's not my decision to go, and you know that, too."

Jack watched Aubrey's jaw tremble. It was deja vu to see it happen; bringing back the painful memory of the afternoon he sat her down and broke the dreaded news that he'd be headed to Bosnia. This time, the tears sliding down her cheeks were fatter, maybe because they held more grief. Unlike being deployed to the Balkans, this time he'd be smack dab in the middle of a bonafide combat zone. One that would get him a combat patch, not just some pathetic little campaign bar to pin on the chest of his dress uniform.

Jack dug deep, trying to find an ounce of what Aubrey felt. Nothing. What he found was scary, so he tried to ignore it. No one in their right mind would feel the level of excitement he was; finally he saw an end to the soul-crushing mundaneness of this domestic life he face-planted into.

Whether Aubrey agreed, him being gone would do them both good.

Jack pushed away from the table, and Aubrey jumped right up to straddle his lap. He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs.

"There's no reason to get upset about it now, before they have even made an official announcement."

"So," she hiccuped. "Doesn't change the fact you're going."

"You don't know that for sure."

"Y—you just said that you ar—"

"I said it's not looking good. A deal could still happen last minute."

"That's what your command said about Kosovo and look how that turned out!"

"This is different. With Afghanistan being total _pizdec_ right now, they're going to do everything they can to keep an invasion of Iraq from happening. The only thing these—these politicians care about is making themselves look good. And let me tell you, us waltzing into another Middle Eastern country before the first mess is even cleaned up won't exactly be forgotten come time for election season."

"But Danny said—"

"Don't be listening to what _Baker_ said. His paycheck revolves around pushing men like me into combat. He fucking sold us out—he'll do and say anything so long as it ends with another operation. His group and the CIA are busy stirring the pot, because without tensions, they have no job.”

Aubrey hooked her arms around Jack's neck, nuzzling her face into the crook. Her tears soaked into the collar of his shirt, and as she whimpered in his arms like a goddamn child, Jack patted her back haphazardly to calm her down.

"Is it true they'll also try to keep you in for another year?"

Jack bit his bottom lip and winced. He had no idea why he's the one groveling when it's him who's about to shove a knife into her back. Again. There were so many lodged in her, Jack lost count.

"Absolutely not." He squeezed her tighter, smelling the clean notes of the lotion she'd slathered on after the bubble bath he forced himself to take with her. "There'll be no reason for them to keep for more than a month or two. _If_ my battalion is part of the invasion, once Baghdad falls, I'll be on the first Black Hawk back to Kuwait."

Aubrey lifted her head off Jack's shoulder. She rubbed her eye with the side of her fist as he pushed her hair over her shoulders.

"Baghdad? For months you've been talking about nothing but, _Fallujah-this-and-Fallujah-that_. Why would you be going to Baghdad?"

It was almost heartbreaking to see what damage watching so many hours of cable news did to her brain. Brushing off the stupid question was easier than explaining the last thirty-years of history.

Holding the sides of her neck, Jack brushed his thumbs along her pulse points. "Remember when you were busting my balls about how I _never_ take you out?" She nodded. "A Sergeant from my platoon asked if we'd meet he and his wife for drinks Friday night. He just got married, so he suggested introducing the two of you. Think you'd mind, you know—" a grin stretched his lips, eyes wildly moving all over the room before they settled on her, a stern glitter "—show her how to be an _outstanding_ member of the integral community that is Army wives."

Aubrey slapped her hands down on Jack's shoulders, resting her forehead to his. It took every ounce of self-control not to burst out with excitement.

"A Sergeant in your platoon? Are you making friends at work, Jack Napier?!"

To hide the rosy hue exploding over his cheeks, Jack tugged her hair to open up her neck.

"Relax," he said, peppering her neck with warm, open-mouthed kisses. "It's just a couple of beers at a dive bar after work… we won't be inviting them over for dinner anytime soon."

"Oh, you never let me have any fun." Aubrey shifted, shamelessly grinding against him. "For the record, Army wives are not all as bad as you think they are. I swear, gossip and rumors fly around base worse than an all-girls prep school."

"Never once have _you_ been the subject of one of those rumors, so perhaps my decision to keep you out of the cesspool wasn't so wrong after all."

"I supposed I'll let you take the win this round." Aubrey's voice was husky. She caressed the tip of her nose along Jack's, this time being the one to go in for a kiss, pulling away before Jack plunged it any deeper. "I don't mind giving her lessons on how to survive around here. You know I'd do anything for you."

He fisted Aubrey's hair, wrapping it around his hand and wrist. "Anything?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Anything."

Jack smirked and winked. "Then you'd better get on those patriotic knees, Cupcake, and make your sergeant proud."


	8. Chapter 8

In the chow line, Jack snatched four giant, freshly baked brownies. Warmth seeped through the flimsy plastic, only making him more impatient to break it open and gobble up the under-done, gooey center.

He paid for the treats and his meal, venturing through the bustling mess hall to where Sullivan, Pierce, and Rossi crowded around a table discussing the month's issue of Juggs magazine.

Jack dropped the brownies into the center of the table, sliding into the empty chair beside Sullivan.

"Settle this one for us, Sergeant." Pierce drudged soggy French fries through the puddle of ketchup. "Are natural or fake titties the way to go?"

Jack unwrapped his tepid burger from the paper covering, plopping the top bun aside to peel off the ungodly amount of pickles they piled on top.

"Natural," he said, reassembling the burger to start eating. "Implants look nice when they're done right, but I want to get in there and play without worrying about anything popping."

Pierce groaned, reaching into his pocket and then plopping down a wad of crumpled bills in front of a grinning Rossi.

Sullivan reached for one of the brownies, tearing into it like a rabid dog as he pushed the Coke-bottle glasses up the bridge of his nose. While he chewed, Sullivan leaned back a little, eyeing Jack. The hard stare coming from the side made Jack shift, trying to figure out why in the hell this kid was trying to dissect him.

"You don't strike me as a titties kinda guy."

Jack popped open his can of Sprite. His forehead creased as he took a drink, digesting the observation Sullivan thought was necessary to vocalize.

He liked Sullivan. Though _liked_ was a word to be used loosely. Sullivan was a little more _tolerable_ than the rest. Still eighteen and less than a year out of basic training, Sullivan was the youngest and least experienced one on Jack's team, which he preferred. By the time the youngsters made it under Jack's command, they were deep in bad habits it took him forever to break them of. Sullivan was a soft globule of fresh clay, all for him to mold and shape into the worrier he wanted. Despite Sullivan's often animated and b-movie antics, Jack refused to turn his back on him when most other officers—both non and commissioned—did. He's like the perfect little teacher's pet, always so eager to please. Jack couldn't remember the last time he had to fill his own canteen or clean his rifle, because Sullivan did all those things without even having to be asked.

"What kind of guy _do_ I strike you as?"

"A booty guy," said Rossi. His delicate tone held a hint of a hick accent and matched his boyish features.

The crazy glint in his hazel eyes was the exact reason Jack _insisted_ he be in charge of the team's SAW—squad automatic weapon. It was a belt-fed light machine gun, and too many times to count Jack scolded Rossi for wearing said bullet belts around his neck like he was fucking Rambo.

Rossi continued, "I saw your wife at the PX a couple of weekends ago, and with an ass like hers, there's no way you'd marry her for the rack."

"We've all seen you at the gym," chimed Pierce, "and the way you stand behind her, eyeing her ass while she does squats."

Sullivan sighed. "The squats are my favorite part of her workout, too. She gets low; really working the glutes and quads. If she's looking for a trainer, give her my number, will ya?" 

They did it.

This group of utter delinquents managed to leave Jack speechless.

Their comments were harmless, the result of nothing more than infatuation, which left Jack more amused than angry. These dimwits, it wouldn't surprise him if they lasted thirty-seconds in bed with a girl before creaming the sheets.

"I appreciate a nice ass…" He didn't want to entertain this conversation from the beginning, but Jack couldn’t leave. They dragged Aubrey in; now it was personal. He'd let them shoot their mouths off, but the next time they uttered a single word about her, Jack would make them wish they'd never been born. "… I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave."

"I love watching her leave, too."

Jack's head snapped to Sullivan, who was too focused on eating to realize what he'd said. It was time to get down to the real reason Jack come around during lunch before he reached over and it was lights-out for Hammerhead. 

"Not sure if you've heard, but at the end of the month, Nichols will no longer be gracing us with his presence here at ol' Fort Riley."

"He's being PCS'd?" Pierce asked, and Jack nodded. "Thank fuck. It was feeling like Sergeant Dickhead was never gonna… Oh, shit."

Jack watched in real time as the gravity of what he said settled in for them. Their faces fell, the worst nightmares of the future flashing before their eyes.

"You're—" Sullivan's jaw trembled— "you're _leaving_ us?"

Rossi brushed chocolate crumbs off his fingers. "That explains the brownies."

Jack shoved the last bite of his burger into his mouth. He hated how this was taking on the vibe of a bad break-up. How much longer until one of them stood up and splashed their 36 ounces of Mountain Dew into his face? The four of them had a good run and saying goodbye was never easy, though for the life of him, Jack couldn't figure out why they were being such babies about this.

They'd bumped into each other at the bar, which ended with them drinking together, and sure Jack once broke into Sullivan's dorm in the barracks to fetch his wallet when he'd left it there before going on a date. It's not like they'd stayed up until the wee hours of the morning braiding each other's hair and exchanging secrets. They weren't _friends_. They've never been friends. This was professional.

"C'mon; it's nothing personal. You guys _know_ that, right? I mean, cut me some slack here… they're making me Staff Sergeant. It's not like I can just say _no_."

"Well, technically you could," Pierce chimed. "Once you reach E-5, they'll let you serve for another six years without ranking up."

"Thank you, Corporal Obvious," crooned Jack. "You're missing the point—I've been at this twice as long as you asshats hav—"

Rossi intruded, "Corporal Obvious? I thought it was _Captain_ Obvious." 

Jack, Sullivan, and Pierce looked at Rossi as he munched away. Jack shook it off, deciding he'd make Rossi run later for being such a fucking idiot, and missing the point he'd made the joke off Pierce's rank.

"What if they assign someone to be our team leader and he's an inbred moron like Rossi here?" asked Sullivan.

The look of genuine concern on his face did nothing but make Jack more guilty for making rank.

"It's not like I'm totally abandoning you guys… you'll still be under my command. Don't forget, I'll have a little sway in who's chosen to take over."

If breaking the news to them was this bad, Jack didn't even want to think about how Aubrey was going to react.

"I guess it won't be bad," said Sullivan, standing up.

Rossi and Pierce got up, too collecting their garbage.

"Thanks for the brownies, Sergeant," said Pierce. 

Rossi shoved the money he'd won from Pierce into the pocket of his trousers. "Congrats on the promotion. You deserve it."

And unlike those overgrown children, mess hall brownies would do fuck all to win over Aubrey.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, he had to come up with a damage control plan and fast. 

Shit.

* * *

Jack was seeing double.

He closed one eye and squinted the other, fumbling with his keys to find the right one. To steady his stance, he rested his shoulder against the jamb. When he came across a rounded brass key on the ring, he held it up to the light illuminating the deserted hallway in the apartment building. This one looked like it _could_ be it.

Getting the key into the lock took a lot more concentration and motor-skills than what Jack mustered. He bit the tip of his tongue, cursing Sullivan, Pierce, and Rossi for insisting they hit a bar after-hours to _celebrate_ his promotion. Word on base about his new rank spread like wild-fire and he only had himself to blame. Ordinarily, Jack didn't feel the desire to give a shit, but now it's a race against the clock to tell Aubrey before some loose-lipped bitch says something to her while in a check-out line at the PX.

His plan to sneak in fell apart. No matter how many attempts he made to get the key into the lock, Jack missed. All he did was make more noise by punching the door. Hopefully Aubrey was in bed and deep into an indica-induced slumber, but that was wishful thinking.

Sure enough, the front door swung right open.

"Hi," he drawled.

The cute little button nose of hers crinkled, smelling the whiskey and beer clinging to the fibers of his civilian clothes. Her clenched jaw, fingers drumming on her hips, and the way her deep-set eyes scanned him up and down, Jack understood she was fighting a battle of temperament.

He didn't blame her. No call to give her the heads up he'd be home late wasn't the smartest in retrospect. How she kept her cool was lost on Jack. If the roles were reversed, her safest option would be to not come home at all.

Aubrey wanted to reach across the threshold, grab him by the collar, and drag him into the apartment. Then again, there wasn't much she could be angry about. No way would Jack go out drinking without so much as a text unless he had a shit day and needed to blow off steam. The last thing she wanted to do was berate him when he's not in a good mood. Things had to be calm, copasetic.

But that's not say she planned on _totally_ keeping her mouth shut.

"You're alive." She rested a hand on her chest, fingers tangling in the chain of the diamond pendant she wore around her neck.

"And you're dramatic." When he spoke, his words held a slur.

"Stop, you scared the shit out of me, J."

She called him _J_.

Jack smiled, losing his balance. Aubrey jutted forward, gripping the flaps of his un-zipped leather jacket to hold him steady.

He was a fucking mess.

A drunken, pathetic mess.

It brought back memories for Aubrey of the times she'd gotten a call from the owner of Jack's favorite bar in Colorado because he'd gotten so plastered he couldn't stand on his own. Turns out the last time she'd left him to fend for himself, and he woke up with a nasty hangover on a picnic table in some park miles from home, resonated. This time he stayed coherent only enough to make it home. And how he did, Aubrey didn't want to know.

"As you can _see_ , I'm perfectly fine."

He wasn't fine; far from it. For once, Aubrey wished he'd stop being so fucking stubborn and just talk to her. Sticking by Baker's advice was close to impossible because she was tired to waiting for him to come to her. Maybe with his guard down, she'd get _somewhere._

"I don't believe you," she snapped. When Jack tried to walk inside, Aubrey grabbed onto the opposite doorjamb, blocking his only way in. "You would've called if you're _fine._ It's not like you. Did something happen at work?"

If only she knew.

"You worry too much about me, _zaichik_."

She rolled her eyes, not in the mood to hear him unload his favorite Russian endearment for her. He only called her _bunny_ when he knew he fucked up.

"Someone has to. If you pull this shit again, I'm telling your mother we're staying with her and your father instead of at my parents' when we move back to Gotham. We both know I can put up with your father a lot longer than you can."

She was joking, but he was too drunk to decode the playful undertone of her words.

Jack bit his tongue, swallowing what he wanted to scream at Aubrey: _the miserable prick is only halfway nice to you because he wants to fuck you!_

"You pull that shit," Jack straightened out, not taking too kindly to her sad excuse of the a threat, "and you'll be the only one going back to Gotham. Call my bluff, Aubs—I dare you. Let me worry about myself."

Aubrey recoiled, a sobering sight for Jack.

He sounded indifferent—callous—when there was no need to be. Only when it was too late did Jack understand she was busting his balls. It seemed like _nothing_ has come across as either of them wanted since they got back to the States, no longer on the same wavelength and reading each other like books. There wasn't a day that went by where Jack wished they were back in Europe. Despite the constant tours, life was simpler. Their marriage was stronger. 

Then 9/11 happened; within weeks their comfortable, semi-predictable life had been ripped right out from under their feet, leaving them dizzy and trying to make sense of how much _home_ changed since they left. Jack skirted being shipped out to Afghanistan. Turns out, being under criminal investigation made him un-deployable, and being left behind added resentment between him and Aubrey. He hated her for being so happy he missed the Afghan invasion, and she hated him for putting her through hell.

He'd make it all better. One way or another. But he sure as shit wasn't walking from Ranger school.

Cupping Aubrey's cheek, he caressed the apple with the rough pad of his thumb. She curled her fingers around his wrist, nesting into his palm. All of her frustrations with him didn't matter anymore. He was home, and he was safe. What more could she ask for?

"Are you hungry? Let me make you something to help soak up the alcohol. Oh, Jack," she crooned, patting his chest and turning her full lips into an over-exaggerated frown. "You're gonna be hurting so bad in the morning."

"I ate already. Got pizza and watched the Avalanche and Star's game."

"You got pizza _and_ watched the hockey game without me?"

"Don't be getting all _jealous_ on me now."

"I'm not jealous!" Aubrey curled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket. "Okay, maybe I am just a little. I miss the two of us just hanging out."

Jack loved how her bottom lip pouted ever so. All he wanted to do was clamp it between his teeth, elicit the knee-weakening moan from her soul. He took a step closer to close the space between them. His mouth hovered a hair's breadth over hers.

"Careful what you wish for. I greased my first sergeant, and he pushed my leave request to the top of the pile, so I found out this afternoon command approved it. After the benefit next Saturday night, I'm all yours for nine days."

"Lucky me." Aubrey's tongue brushed along Jack's lip. The single act left him feeling more intoxicated than booze ever could. "Come on, let's get your drunk ass to bed."


End file.
